Novices Who Attained the Path

In Śrāvastī there was a mountain village of fifty or sixty households, five hundred li from the capital. In that village lived one poor household, whose wife, after ten months of pregnancy, gave birth to twin boys, both of extraordinary beauty. Their parents loved them dearly, and named them: the elder, Twin-Virtue; the younger, Twin-Blessing.

When the twins were fifty or sixty days old, their father was resting on a bed after tending cattle, and their mother had not yet returned from gathering firewood. The two infants began reproaching one another. One said: not long ago, we were on the very verge of attaining the path — but, through sheer foolishness, we believed our own good fortune would last forever, and so fell back into birth and death for countless kalpas beyond counting. Now we are born into this poor household, clothed in mere straw and coarse cloth, our food and drink so meager we can barely sustain our own lives — how, at this rate, can we go on living at all? All of this stems from our own past-life longing for wealth and glory, indulging ourselves and scattering our own resolve for a mere moment's pleasure — and, from that time to this, we have suffered through the long road of saṃsāra. Now, in our present distress, what refuge do we truly have?

The other answered: at the time, it seemed a small setback — a single moment's failure to see our own diligence through to the end — yet now, across several lifetimes, we have met with every kind of misfortune. This is entirely our own doing, not our parents' — what more is there to say, except to bear it together?

Their father, overhearing this, was alarmed, believing them to be demons: they are still so small, and yet — they should be killed at once. In his fright, he went out to the fields, gathered firewood, and meant to burn them. Their mother, returning, asked her husband what the firewood was for; he told her what he had heard. The mother, hearing this, was stunned and uncertain.

The next day, the husband and wife together went out and listened in secret; the two children were reproaching one another exactly as before. The parents then gathered firewood together, intending to burn them in secret.

The Buddha, seeing this with his own divine eye, came to the village, radiating light everywhere; heaven and earth shook greatly, and the mountains, rivers, and trees all turned to gold. Arriving at the twins' own household, the two infants, seeing the Buddha's own light, leapt with a joy beyond measure. Their parents, startled anew, each took up one child, and carried them before the Buddha, asking the World-Honored One: these children, born only forty or fifty days ago, speak in this way, and we are utterly bewildered by it — fearing some calamity, we meant to burn them; we do not know what manner of demon or spirit this might be — we beg you, please explain.

The infants, seeing the Buddha, leapt with joy; the Buddha, seeing the infants, laughed greatly, and from his own mouth issued light of five colors, illuminating heaven and earth everywhere. The Buddha said: these two infants are no demons at all, but children of great merit. In the time of Kāśyapa Buddha, in a past age, they were both śramaṇas, friends since their own youth, who went forth together with a single shared resolve, each cultivating diligence — yet, on the very verge of attaining the path, a deluded thought suddenly arose in them both, and, undermining one another together, they came instead to delight in worldly glory, relying on their own accumulated merit to be reborn in heaven, and afterward as princes, kings, and elders on earth. Once that deluded thought had arisen, they fell back from their own progress, failed to attain nirvāṇa, and continued instead through birth and death — bound to one another across the years, always reborn together as twins, until, meeting my own present age, they have only now been born again. Because they had once already made offerings to a buddha, some remaining merit of theirs called for their own deliverance; and, their past lives now known to them, I have come to deliver them — for, had I not, they would have been wrongly burned by fire.

The Buddha then spoke this verse:

"The great being's own body holds no desire; / wherever he is, his light shines clear. / Though he may meet with suffering or joy alike, / he never exalts himself, or shows off his own wisdom. / The truly wise have no concern for worldly affairs, / and wish for neither children, wealth, nor kingdom; / they hold instead to the path of precept and wisdom, / never coveting ill-gotten wealth and glory. / The wisdom of the merely clever wavers and shifts, / like a tree rooted in loose sand — / when a friend's own resolve is not firm, / he is dyed by whatever color surrounds him."

The Buddha spoke thus, and the two infants, seeing him, leapt up in body until they stood as tall as eight-year-old children, and became novices at once, attaining the fruit of arhatship on the spot. The villagers, young and old alike, seeing the Buddha's own radiant form, and seeing the infants transformed and grown so suddenly, all rejoiced greatly, and attained the fruit of stream-entry; their parents, their doubts now resolved, attained the pure Dharma-eye as well (Source: Dharmapada, fascicle 1).

There was a king named Zhāntuóyuè, who served the brahmanical teaching, and, in governing his kingdom, relied on brahmin counsel. The king favored a certain lesser consort above his other wives, who, in jealousy, bribed a brahmin with gold to slander her before the king, claiming that the son she would bear must surely become a threat to the kingdom. The king, hearing this, was troubled, and asked the brahmin what should be done. He answered: only that the child be killed along with her. The king said: how could one so lightly take a human life? The brahmin answered: should you fail to kill them, you will surely lose both your kingdom and your own life. The king, wrongly persuaded, had the child killed before birth.

Yet the child was born afterward all the same, inside his own mother's tomb; her body, though dead, remained unspoiled from the waist up, and the child nursed at her own breast. For three full years this continued, until the tomb collapsed and gave way, and the child emerged, playing there among the birds and beasts, returning each evening to the tomb to sleep.

When the child reached six years of age, the Buddha, reflecting on his hardship, living as he did among animals, transformed himself into a śramaṇa, and went to question him: whose child are you, and where do you live? The child answered joyfully: I have no household at all — I only lodge here in this tomb. He asked to follow the renunciant away. The Buddha asked: what do you wish to do? The child answered: whatever good or ill may come, I shall follow this renunciant to the very end.

The Buddha then brought him to Jetavana, where, seeing the monks' own dignified bearing and discipline, the child took great delight in it, and said to the Buddha: I wish to ask to become a monk. The Buddha granted this at once, and, laying his own hand upon the child's head, his hair fell away of itself, and monastic robes appeared upon his body; he was given the name Xūtuó. Guarding the precepts with unwavering diligence, he attained the fruit of arhatship within seven days.

The Buddha told Xūtuó: you should now go and deliver King Zhāntuóyuè. Xūtuó went to him; the king said: my own heart is filled with great sorrow — what am I to do? The renunciant asked: what troubles you? The king said: I am already advanced in years, and, past the proper time, still have no heir — this is the cause of my grief. The renunciant, hearing the king's words, made no reply at first, and only smiled quietly to himself. The king, angered, said: I speak with you, renunciant, and you do not answer me at all, but only smile to yourself instead! — and moved to have him killed.

Xūtuó, knowing his intent, rose lightly into the air, hovering aloft, dividing and scattering his own body, appearing and vanishing without interval. The king, seeing this display of spiritual power, repented at once: I have truly been foolish, unable to distinguish truth from falsehood — I beg only that this great spirit return, that I might take refuge before him. Xūtuó descended at once from the sky, and stood before the king, telling him: if you can truly take refuge, this is most excellent — you should take refuge in the Buddha himself, who is my own teacher, honored throughout the three realms, the deliverer of all beings.

In no more time than it takes to stretch out one's own arm, Xūtuó brought the king and his people together before the Buddha, where they took refuge in the Three Jewels, and asked to receive the five precepts as lay followers. The Buddha then told them in full that Xūtuó was in fact the king's own son. The king, hearing this, was overcome with a fear he could not master.

The Buddha said: long ago, in the age of Jūxiānní Buddha, there was a king named Fúshědá, whose whole kingdom's people made offerings to the Three Jewels. At that time there lived an ordinary man, poor and without any trade of his own, who was hired by the kingdom's wealthy families to herd several hundred head of cattle. Seeing the king and his people making offerings to the assembly of monks, he asked them: what is it that you are doing? The people answered: we are making offerings to the Three Jewels — hereafter, we shall always dwell in ease, honor, and dignity, free of any hardship. The herdsman thought to himself: being poor, I can only boil my cattle's own milk into cheese and butter, and offer it with a pure heart to the monks instead. The assembled monks blessed him with this dedication: may you obtain blessing in every life to come. From that time on, through his own continued transmigration across many lives, he received this very blessing in turn — sometimes reborn above among the devas, sometimes below as a king or prince.

Once, as a prince, he went out hunting, and, seeing a fine cow heavy with calf, killed her. His own consort told him: do not kill her unborn calf — and so the calf was cut free and raised instead. The cow's original owner, in anger, said: may the prince himself become just like this cow! From that time on, that very spirit was reborn as this prince's own son — and, before he was even born, his mother was killed by the prince's own order. This is none other than Xūtuó himself. Xūtuó's mother was that very prince's own consort at that time; and the brahmin was that same cow's original owner.

That Xūtuó was born within a tomb, and that his mother's body, unspoiled from the waist up, allowed him to nurse and grow to maturity there, was owed entirely to his own past-life offering of cheese and butter to the assembly of monks. The king, hearing this, was freed from his own doubts, and attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Sūtra of King Zhāntuóyuè).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. At that time the venerable Śāriputra surveyed the world with his own divine eye three times each day and night, and, whoever he found fit to be delivered, went at once to deliver them.

At that time a group of merchants set out for another country (the Sūtra of Repaying Kindness says there were five hundred merchants traveling between two countries); the merchants brought a dog along with them (the Sūtra of Repaying Kindness says it was a white dog). Partway along the road, as the merchants rested, the dog stole some meat; the whole company beat the dog for this, broke its leg, and abandoned it in the open wilderness, leaving it there as they departed.

Śāriputra, seeing the dog with his own divine eye — crippled, lying on the ground, starving and near death — flew at once to its side and gave it food. The dog, its remaining life thus saved, was filled with joy; Śāriputra then taught it the sublime Dharma. The dog, when its own life ended, was reborn into a brahmin household in Śrāvastī.

Śāriputra, later, was begging for alms alone; the brahmin, seeing him, asked: venerable one, do you travel alone, without any novice attendant? Śāriputra answered: I have no novice. Hearing that you have a son, I would ask that he be given to me. The brahmin said: I have one son, named Jūntí, but he is still an infant, and not yet fit to serve you — once he is older, I shall give him to you. Śāriputra kept this promise in mind, and, when the boy reached seven years of age, returned to ask for him again. The brahmin then let his son go forth; Śāriputra brought him to Jetavana, and, teaching him the Dharma gradually, his mind opened in understanding, and he attained arhatship (the Sūtra of Repaying Kindness records the Buddha saying: welcome — and his hair fell away of itself, monastic robes appearing on his body).

The novice Jūntí, having only just attained the path, used his own newfound wisdom to observe his past lives, and saw that, in his own former life, he had been a starving dog, and that, through his preceptor's own kindness, he had now obtained a human body, and attained the fruit of the path besides. A joy arose within him, and he thought to himself: I have received my teacher's own kindness, and been freed from every suffering — I shall now devote my whole life to attending to his every need, and remain a novice forever.

Long ago, in the time of Kāśyapa Buddha, monks had gathered together in one place; among them, a young monk possessed a clear and elegant voice, skilled in chanting hymns of praise, while an elderly monk, advanced in years, had a rough and dull voice, unable to chant the scriptures well, and so would simply chant for his own private enjoyment, on his own. This elderly monk had, in fact, already attained arhatship. The young monk mocked him, saying: elder, your voice sounds just like a dog's bark! The elderly monk then said to the young one: do you know who I am? The young monk answered: I know you well — you are a senior monk from the time of Kāśyapa Buddha. He answered: I have now already attained arhatship.

The young monk, terrified, reproached himself and repented — yet still, across five hundred lifetimes that followed, he was constantly reborn in the body of a dog. It was only because, in this present life, he went forth and upheld the pure precepts, that he has now come to see me, and thereby obtained his own liberation (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 12).

Long ago there was a small kingdom, not far from whose capital lay a fine forest, where five renunciants pursued the path. One of them, a monk, had attained the six supernormal powers; among them, too, was a novice, only eight years old, and together they dwelt in the mountains, each sitting apart, absorbed in the contemplation of the scriptures and the path.

The teacher, knowing that his novice had only seven days left to live, and fearing that, should the boy die there, his own parents might blame him for having failed to care for him properly, and harbor resentment against him, told the novice: your parents are thinking of you — you should go home, and return again in eight days. The novice, delighted, bowed and departed.

Along the road, he encountered a great rainstorm, the water flowing in torrents; in the ground was an ant's burrow, into which the flowing water was about to pour. The novice thought to himself: I am a disciple of the Buddha — my duty is, first, a heart of loving-kindness, and second, to preserve life — and at once dammed the earth to divert the water away from the burrow.

The novice returned home, and nothing else befell him; on the morning of the eighth day, he came back. His teacher, seeing him from afar, was astonished — he ought to have died within seven days; by what cause was he still alive now? Could some ghost or spirit have taken his form and come in his place? The teacher entered meditative absorption at once, and saw that the novice's own act of saving the ants had, in this very life, extended his lifespan.

The novice arrived, bowed, and sat to one side. The teacher said to him: you have performed a great meritorious deed — do you know this yourself? The novice answered: in my seven days at home, I did nothing of any particular merit. The teacher said: your own life was fated to end — yet yesterday, because you saved those ants, your present lifespan has been extended by more than eighty years. The novice, overjoyed, and now confident that goodness truly brings its own reward, applied himself thereafter with even greater diligence, without ever slackening, and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of Blessings and Their Fruits; also found in the Ten-Fascicle Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 7).

In Śrāvastī there lived an old man, who, having lost his wife early in life, dwelt alone with his son. Reduced to poverty, and awakened to the impermanence of the world, he went forth as a monk under the Buddha; his son, still young, became a novice as well, and the two of them went begging for alms together.

As evening drew near and they needed to return, the father walked slowly, and the son, fearing the dangerous beasts that might come out after dark, hurried to support his father and push him forward along the road — but his grip was not firm, and, in pushing him, the father fell to the ground and died instantly at his own son's hand.

The son went alone before the Buddha. The other monks rebuked the novice at once, and reported the matter to the Buddha, who told them: though this teacher has died, it was not done with any malicious intent. The Buddha then asked the novice: did you kill your own teacher? He answered: I truly did push him, but not with any malicious intent. The Buddha said: I know that your own heart held no malice. In a past age, too, the very same thing occurred — a killing between two people, without any malicious intent at all.

Long ago, a father and son dwelt together in one place. The father, gravely ill, lay sleeping, and many flies came again and again to disturb him. The father told his son to keep the flies away, hoping to sleep undisturbed. The son, driving the flies off urgently, found they would not stop coming, and, growing angry, took up a large stick, waiting for a fly to kill (the Sarvāstivāda Vinaya says he held a large stone to strike at mosquitoes). The flies then gathered together on the father's own forehead; the son struck at them with the stick, and the father died at once.

That father was this same novice's teacher; and that son was the very monk who has now died. Because there was no malicious intent, no wish to harm at all, this was no true killing. The novice, applying himself with unwavering diligence, went on to attain the fruit of arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 10).

The Buddha traveled in Śrāvastī, in the Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's park. A certain monk there had a disciple of gentle and refined character, kind and virtuous in every action, who constantly attended his own preceptor with sincere care and diligence, reverently following the Dharma's teaching, never once disobeying his teacher's own instruction. Yet his own life was short, and he died while still young, and was reborn in the palace of Trāyastriṃśa heaven.

Looking out over the heavens, he saw only a great fire, and thought: my own original aspiration remains unfulfilled — I cannot keep company with my own good companions here, and, having left my good teacher behind, now find myself among unfamiliar company instead. In this way I have become distant from my own honored preceptor, and from the assembly of Āyílí and all others of similar kind who cultivate pure conduct, and from the fourfold assembly of disciples, and from the one endowed with all-encompassing wisdom, called the Tathāgata — now all of them lie far from me, one so difficult to encounter, so difficult even to glimpse, across ages beyond counting. He has arisen in this world to expound the scriptures' own subtle and profound meaning, teachings never before spoken, calmly opening beings to understanding, teaching the various chains of dependent origination, so that each might come to understand for themselves the causes from which they arise — matters unseen and unheard across ages beyond counting, now all made clear. Having encountered this very teaching and discipline, I abandoned my own household to pursue the path — yet what I ought to have accomplished remains unfinished, and now, instead, I find myself here in mere heedless ease.

He went first before the World-Honored One, and bowed at his feet. The Buddha, seeing his heart truly sincere, delighting purely in the path, wholly devoted to the Dharma, taught him suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path — and he beheld the truth at once.

Meanwhile his own former preceptor, grieving, wept as though in rain. The Buddha called to him and asked: why do you suffer such distress? He answered: my own disciple has passed away. The Buddha asked: why does this cause you such grief? He answered: my novice disciple was of such fine and virtuous character, yet died prematurely before completing his own training — it is for this that I grieve, and cannot console myself. The Buddha said: grieve no longer — he has already reached completion, and has been reborn in heaven; this very night, at midnight, he distinguished the noble truths for himself. The monk wept no more (Source: Sūtra of a Disciple's Passing).

Śāriputra had a novice named Cunda, who, at eight years old, had attained the six supernormal powers, and could fly through the open sky to Lake Anavatapta. There was also a brahmin ascetic of the five powers, named Subhadra, who likewise came to that same lake. At the lake, a blue-robed ghost stood guard, and drove Subhadra away, pelting him with tiles and stones, never letting him draw near the sacred waters.

When the novice Cunda arrived, flying through the open sky, that same blue-robed ghost, together with several hundred of its own kind, came forward to greet him — some gathering up his robes, some bringing clear water to wash his hands and feet, some wiping his head and face with a clean cloth, some bathing his own body in fragrant water.

Subhadra cried out: I have already attained the five powers, my own spiritual virtue beyond measure — with such strength I can move mountains and hold back rivers, turn heaven and earth as easily as a bead turned in the palm of my hand. In the hundred and twenty years since I first began studying the path, I have exhausted my own body and mind in every austerity — attending to the five sciences, tending fire at the four corners, letting the sun's own rays scorch me from above, lying at times in ash and filth, at times among thorns and brambles in dangerous places — there is no discipline I have not undertaken. And yet I am still driven away, and cannot reach the lake at all — while this small child in black robes, only seven or eight years old, not yet even weaned, whose own body reeks with the stench of an infant, receives such excessive reverence. Why is this so?

The blue-robed ghost told the ascetic: though this young scholar is small in years and form, his own conduct has already surpassed the three realms, and he has attained the noble eightfold path itself. You yourself have attained none of this — that is why we show you no such reverence.

There was, elsewhere, a brahmin named Yuèchā, who built a temple, likewise named Yuèchā, and constantly supplied it with oil and butter to keep its lamps burning. A brahmin from a distant land came once to that temple, having heard of the brahmin Yuèchā's own great talent and clear virtue, and, though himself devoted to the brahmanical teaching and the temples raised to its own deities, came to meet him in person.

At that time, a novice came to fetch oil and butter, to supply the temple's own lamps. Several brahmins there said to the visiting brahmin, Yuèchā: do you truly mean to bow before this man in colored robes? Before the words were even finished, the novice arrived, and Yuèchā bowed to him at once. The assembled brahmins said to their visiting guest: you come from the four highest castes, your own talent surpassing others, versed in astronomy and geography alike, your sacred spells moving even the spirits, nothing beyond your own accomplishment — yet this man in colored robes comes from a mixed multitude of castes, of no true or pure lineage at all — why would you abandon your own proper conduct to bow before him in reverence? You yourself, moreover, hold to pure practice, cultivate the hidden scriptures and secret prophecies within your own tradition, and, through the merit your own practice has achieved, there is nothing you could wish for that lies beyond your reach — every text and seal already mastered in full. What is there of value in the Buddha's own meager practice, that you should abandon what is fundamental to chase after what is merely secondary? This is precisely what troubles us. We have heard that śramaṇas are poor and lowly, their cunning deceptions spreading confusion among the people of the world, their own practice brief and self-serving, incapable of securing any lasting brahmanical blessing. Even should you meet one, a simple gesture of the hands would suffice — why prostrate your entire body upon the ground in such reverence? We ourselves have witnessed this and find it deeply strange — how much more so a senior scholar such as yourself? How could we possibly excuse you this transgression?

Yuèchā answered the assembled brahmins: all of you, be still, and hear what I have to say.

"The virtue of the noble and wise cannot be measured; / the eightfold path is the unsurpassed way — / this is what the Tathāgata himself proclaimed / to be the true brahmin-renunciant. / Though I see before me a form still small, / it has already borne the fruit of the noble path — / it is for this that I now take refuge in him; / brahmins, why do you mock me for this?"

"Toward this he has already attained ultimate completion" refers to the stream-enterer and the once-returner, who are able to sever the bonds of the desire realm, and every entanglement of the aggregates and sense-fields — it is for this reason we say he has attained the very exhaustion of Māra's own domain. One who enters absorption in seated meditation, delighting in quiet solitude, his own will fixed single-mindedly, counting the breath in and out, his resolve held firm, is able to sever Māra's own bonds, and bind Māra in turn. One who has entered such absorption can command even spirits and ghosts, who come at his own will the moment he wishes it — one need only seek the right means to sever Māra's own firm bonds (Source: Sūtra of Illustrative Parables [Chūyào jīng], fascicle 5).

Long ago there was a young child, only seven years old, who greatly loved the Buddha's own path, and became a novice, following an arhat teacher to study in the mountains, applying himself with unwavering diligence. By the age of eight, he had already attained the four supernormal knowledges: first, sight that penetrates all obstruction; second, hearing that penetrates all obstruction; third, the power of flight and transformation; and fourth, knowledge of his own past lives, wherever they came from.

Sitting in reflection, he beheld the whole course of his own past lives, and, seeing that he had been son to five different mothers in turn, suddenly laughed aloud. His teacher asked why he laughed. The novice said: how would I dare laugh at you, my teacher? I was only observing that this single life of mine has, in fact, had five mothers, each weeping day and night, stricken with sorrow, always saying: I have never once forgotten to think of my child. And I reflected: one single life's grief, spread across five different households — this is why I laughed.

When I was son to my first mother, there was a neighbor's child born on the very same day as I; after I died, that same child, born the same day as I, continued to walk about and go on with life. My mother, seeing this, said: were my own child still alive, he too would be walking about just so — and grieved for me in sorrow and pain.

I was then son to a second mother, and died again not long after birth. My mother, seeing others nursing their own children, was struck with grief at the thought of me, weeping in sorrow.

I was then son to a third mother, and again died not long after. My mother, at mealtimes, would weep, thinking of me: were my child still alive, he would share this meal with me — but he has abandoned me, and died.

I was then son to a fourth mother, and again died not long after. When others of my own age were being married, my mother thought of me again: had my child not died, he too would be taking a wife by now.

I was then son to a fifth mother, and it is in this very life that I still remain. Yet I left my own household to study the path, and my mother weeps daily, saying: I have lost my child, and do not know where he has gone — through hunger, cold, life, and death, we shall never see each other again — and grieves in deep anguish.

Now these five mothers have all, in a sense, gathered together — each speaking of her own lost child, each weeping and grieving for me, one single person. This is why I laughed.

People in this world do not know that there is a life to come — they speak only of death, as though it were the end. Yet a person who does good obtains blessing, and one who does evil meets with calamity; while still in this world, people ought to hold themselves in awe of their own good and evil deeds — for one who fears nothing now shall, afterward, suffer for the evil done, and, once fallen into an evil realm, no regret can undo it. It is because I grew weary of this world that I left my own family to seek the path. I have seen the hells, the animal realm, the hungry ghosts, and the poverty of this human world, and, in place of these mothers, I bear the fear they cannot see. I have received my teacher's own kindness, and taken up the Buddha's own scriptures and precepts, and am now on the way to liberation — yet these five mothers of mine remain unable to attain it themselves, and grieve for me still, again and again (Source: Sūtra of the Child with Five Mothers).

There was a monk of few desires, content with what he had. In the country of Andhra there lived a lay follower, devoted in faith to the Three Jewels, who supported them for his whole life, sending offerings daily. In that same country there lived an elder, whose own son he wished to have go forth, and, seeking a worthy teacher for him, went before this monk and said: I wish this one son of mine to go forth — I beg only that you, in your great compassion, accept and deliver him. The monk, observing with his own spiritual eye that this boy, once gone forth, would be able to uphold the pure precepts, took him on and made him a novice.

The lay follower had a close friend, a fellow householder, whose own family was to hold a gathering of guests the next day. That morning, he thought to himself: who shall stay behind to guard the house while we attend this gathering? His own daughter said: father and mother, please take all the servants with you — you go on ahead to the invitation, and I shall stay behind to guard the house. Her father said: very well — and the whole household went, while the daughter shut the door and remained alone within.

That same day, the lay follower, in his own haste, forgot to send the usual food offering. The venerable monk, thinking to himself that the day was growing late, and that lay people often have many affairs to attend to, sent his novice to go and fetch it, bidding him keep his own bearing composed and dignified, exactly as the Buddha had taught.

The novice knocked at the door; the young woman asked who it was. He answered: a novice, come on his teacher's behalf to receive the food offering. She opened the door for him at once. This young woman was of striking and lovely appearance, only sixteen years old, and, burning now with the fire of desire, displayed before the novice every manner of seductive charm, revealing her own desire plainly. The novice, seeing this, thought to himself: does this woman suffer from some fit of madness? Or is she driven by the bonds of desire, meaning to destroy my own pure conduct? He held his own bearing firm, his expression unchanged.

The young woman then threw herself to the ground before him, and said to the novice: what I have always wished to say is this — the treasures and storehouses within this household are as rich as the treasury of Vaiśravaṇa's own heavenly palace, yet have no true master. Would you consent to become the master of this house? I shall be your own servant, and see to your every wish, that my own desire might be fulfilled.

The novice thought to himself: I would rather give up my own life than defile the precepts I have vowed to keep. In days past, a monk who found himself in a house of prostitution chose to throw himself into a pit of fire rather than commit any act of desire. And there were monks, robbed by bandits and bound with mere grass, who, though the wind blew and the sun scorched them, and insects gnawed at their own flesh, would not break even a single blade of that grass, for the precept's own sake, and so remained bound rather than leave. And there was a monk who, seeing a bird swallow a pearl, said nothing at all, though it cost him great suffering, for the precept's own sake. And there was, aboard a sinking ship, a monk of low seat who, for the precept's own sake, gave up his place on a plank to another, and sank into the sea and died. All such people, only the Buddha's own disciples, are able to uphold the precepts in this way — but I myself am no true disciple, if I cannot do the same. The Tathāgata, the World-Honored One, would then be that other monk's own teacher, and not mine at all.

He then spoke to her with skillful means: bar the doors and windows securely — I shall go into a room, and do what is needed there; only then shall I come to you. The woman shut the door as he said. The novice entered a room, bolted its own door, took up a razor, removed his own robes and set them upon a rack, and, joining his palms, knelt facing toward Kuśinagara, the place of the Buddha's own parinirvāṇa, and made this vow to himself: I shall not, this day, abandon the Buddha's teaching or the Saṅgha, nor shall I abandon the precepts — it is precisely to uphold them that I now give up this body and this life, wherever I may then be reborn. Having gone forth in pure conduct, may I exhaust every outflow, and attain the path. And, with this, he cut his own throat, and died.

The young woman, surprised at his long delay, went to the door to look, and found him already dead, his own form disfigured; her desire subsided at once, and, overcome with shame, remorse, and grief, she cried out and fainted.

Her father, returning from the gathering, saw his daughter in this state, and asked what had happened; she told him the whole truth. The father then went into the room, and saw the novice, his own body soaked red with blood like sandalwood dye, and, bowing before him, praised him, saying: he has guarded the Buddha's precepts, even at the cost of his own life.

In that kingdom, the law held that, should any śramaṇa die within a layperson's own household, a fine of gold must be paid. The lay follower placed a thousand gold pieces upon a bronze tray, carried it to the royal palace, and said: great king, I owe a penalty, and it should be paid into your own treasury — I beg you to accept it. The king said: you, in my own kingdom, have honored and trusted the Three Jewels, your words and conduct never once at odds with them — what fault could you alone have committed, that you should pay such a fine? The lay follower then told the whole matter in full, blaming his own daughter and praising the novice.

The king, hearing this, was struck with awe, and told him: the novice guarded the precepts even at the cost of his own life — you yourself bear no fault at all; take this back to your own household. I myself shall now go in person to your home, to make offering to the novice. The king went and saw him, bowed before him, and, adorning a high carriage with every kind of treasure, had the novice's own body carried to level ground, where fragrant wood was piled high and he was cremated with full honors.

The king then had the young woman herself adorned in the finest manner the world could offer, and placed in a high, visible place, so that the whole assembled crowd might see her, and told the people: this woman's own beauty and radiant charm are such as this — who among those not yet free of desire could fail to feel some stir of attachment at the sight of her? And yet this novice, though not yet himself an arhat, offered up his own mortal, still-living body to uphold the precept, and gave up his own life for it — how rare and extraordinary a thing this is!

The king then sent for the novice's own teacher, and had him teach the sublime Dharma widely to the whole assembly. All those gathered there, seeing and hearing of this event, were moved — some sought to go forth themselves, and some gave rise to the resolve for unsurpassed enlightenment (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 7).

Long ago there was an arhat who practiced the path in the mountains together with a novice. The novice went daily to beg food from nearby households. Along the way, he had to cross an embankment, steep and treacherous; one day he slipped and fell, and his food was soiled with mud. From then on, the novice would set aside the unsoiled portion of his alms for his own teacher, and wash and eat the soiled portion himself. This happened not once, but repeatedly.

His teacher asked: why do you wash off and discard the food's own flavor like this? He answered: when I go out to beg, the sky is clear, but by the time I return, it rains — and, on the embankment, I fall, and my food is soiled. The teacher, reflecting on this in silence, understood that a dragon was troubling the novice, and rose at once to go to the embankment, striking at the reeds there with his own staff.

The dragon transformed itself into an old man, and came forward, bowing its head to the ground. The monk said: why do you trouble my own novice? It answered: I have truly come to love his own fine appearance. From this day forward, please come each day to eat at my own dwelling instead. The monk accepted this invitation, and went daily to eat there.

The novice, later, noticed two or three grains of rice in his own teacher's bowl that were unlike any food of this world, and asked his preceptor about them; the teacher said nothing in reply. The novice then went beneath the teacher's own seat, and took hold of its legs with his own hands; once the teacher's meditation had ended, he flew off, the novice still holding fast, and together they arrived above the dragon's own palace hall, where the dragon and its own wife bowed before the monk, and bowed before the novice as well.

The teacher, realizing what was happening, called the novice aside and told him: these are no true palace women at all — they are animals. You, as a novice, though not yet having attained the path, are certain to be reborn in Trāyastriṃśa heaven, a fate a hundred times better than this — do not let your own heart be defiled by such a thought.

The novice said: such a dragon's own dwelling is rarely seen in this world. The teacher said: it carries within it three sufferings. First, though its food holds every hundred flavors, the moment it enters the dragon's own mouth, it turns to toads. Second, though its consorts appear of matchless beauty, when dragons unite as husband and wife, it is in truth two serpents coupling together. Third, upon a dragon's own back grow reversed scales, beneath which sand and grit collect, causing pain that reaches straight to the heart and chest — this is truly a great suffering. Why, then, would you wish to follow such a path? You have not yet attained the path yourself, and ought not to be shown the realm of ghosts, nor the private affairs of kings.

The novice made no reply, but, day and night, could not stop thinking of what he had seen, and, pining for it, fell ill from refusing to eat, and died — his own spirit reborn as the dragon's own child (the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra says: through his own giving and precept-keeping, he had wished to become a dragon quickly, and, his resolve fixed on this, water rose from beneath his own feet; afterward, he went to the great pool where his teacher had first entered, covered his own head with his monastic robe, and entered the water; upon dying, he transformed at once into a great dragon spirit, and killed the former dragon, the whole pool turning red with blood — Source: Sūtra of Kāśyapa's Interrogation of Nanda; also found in the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 17).

There was once a novice whose heart was constantly fond of cheese; whenever donors offered cheese to the Saṅgha, the novice would each time receive the leftover portion, and his own heart clung to this small pleasure, unable to let it go. When his own life ended, he was reborn inside the very jar that held the leftover cheese.

This novice's own teacher had, by then, attained arhatship. When the assembly divided up the cheese one day, he said: go slowly — do not harm this novice who so loved cheese. The others asked: what do you mean by "the novice who loved cheese"? He answered: this was once my own novice — it is only because of his own craving for the leftover cheese that he has been reborn here, inside this very jar.

When the teacher received his own portion of the cheese, the worm came forth within it. The teacher said: you who loved cheese so — why have you come to me now? — and gave the cheese to it at once (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 17).