Nuns Who Attained the Path

The Blessed One dwelt in Rājagṛha. The nun Bhadrā, leaving the monks' own garden, sat beneath a tree, and, her mind fixed in recollection, suddenly recalled her own past lives, and laughed. The other nuns, seeing this, asked her why. Bhadrā said: I have just recalled my own past lives, back ninety-one kalpas, to when the Tathāgata Vipaśyin appeared in the world.

There was, at that time, a young man named Báluómótípó, of boundless wealth, who, carrying a jeweled canopy, went out from his own house. A certain elder's wife, of matchless beauty, happened to pass that same way, and a great crowd of people all turned to look at her. The young man thought to himself: here I am, holding aloft this jeweled canopy, made of every kind of treasure, passing along this same road — yet no one turns to look at me at all, only at this elder's wife. I must now devise some means to make the crowd look at me instead.

The young man then carried his jeweled canopy out of that whole region entirely, and went to the Tathāgata Vipaśyin, and, standing behind the Tathāgata, held the canopy aloft for seven days and seven nights, making this vow: may the merit of this offering to the World-Honored One cause me to be reborn, in time, as a woman of matchless beauty, such that any who see me shall be overcome, and fall down before me.

When the young man's own life ended, he was reborn in Trāyastriṃśa heaven, as a heavenly maiden, possessed of five surpassing qualities: heavenly lifespan, heavenly beauty, heavenly pleasure, heavenly supernormal power, and heavenly excellence of merit. The devas, seeing this maiden, all longed to have her for their own, and the whole of Trāyastriṃśa heaven contended over her.

When that heavenly maiden's own life ended, she was reborn among humans as the daughter of the brahmin Hòuruòdáduō, of surpassing beauty; passing back and forth between the human and heavenly realms, she remained always of surpassing beauty, and met with many buddhas, serving and making offerings to them all, though she always sought rebirth as a woman.

She was later reborn among humans into a lowly brahmin household, as a servant girl to the young man Candraprabha, whose own wife, named Mónuóhēluó, was of matchless beauty. Candraprabha's wife once told this servant girl: go outside the house, and, should you see any śramaṇa or brahmin, bring him here — I wish to make an offering.

The servant went outside, and found a pratyekabuddha begging at the threshold. The servant girl Jǐluó told him: come in — I wish to make an offering to you. But the mistress, seeing his unimpressive appearance, told Jǐluó: send this śramaṇa away — I shall not give to him. The servant said: I beg you, mistress, open your heart, and do not judge this śramaṇa's own form — the merit of offering to him is beyond all measure. The mistress answered: drive this śramaṇa out at once — I cannot bear to give to him. The servant answered: if you yourself, mistress, will not give to this śramaṇa, then let me give my own portion of food today instead — please do not begrudge me this. The mistress then gave the servant her ration of parched grain-meal.

Jǐluó at once placed her own portion of grain-meal into the pratyekabuddha's own bowl; having eaten it, he rose into the open sky. The servant, seeing this, was overcome with a joy she could not contain, and made this vow: may the merit of this deed keep me from ever falling into the lower realms, and may I, in ages far into the future, constantly encounter this very sage, that he might teach me the Dharma, and bring me swiftly to liberation.

King Brahmadatta of Vārāṇasī, seeing the pratyekabuddha rise into the sky, told his ministers of the offering that had been made. The elder Candraprabha, meanwhile, had gathered five hundred merchants together in a great lecture hall, and, seeing from a distance the pratyekabuddha rising with his own bowl, one of the merchants remarked: this sage must surely have received his food from my own household.

Candraprabha's wife, learning what the servant Jǐluó had done, said to her: give me the merit you have obtained — it is I, after all, who truly made this offering; I shall give you food in return. The servant said: I shall not give it to you. The mistress said: I shall give you two portions of food instead. She answered: I have no need of it. The mistress offered three, then five, then ten, then twenty, then a hundred, then a thousand portions. Still the servant Jǐluó said: I shall not give it to you. The mistress said: if you will not give it to me, I shall cut off your own ears, nose, and hands. Still the servant said: I shall not give it to you. The elder's wife then struck the servant with a rod, again and again.

When the elder Candraprabha returned, he found the servant Jǐluó, her head broken, her clothes torn, weeping in grief. He asked her what had happened, and she told him the whole matter fully. Candraprabha then took his own wife and made her a servant in turn, and made the servant Jǐluó his own chief wife instead, surrounded by five hundred attendant women, her body adorned with a hundred thousand treasures.

King Brahmadatta, hearing that it was Candraprabha's own servant who had fed the pratyekabuddha, presented Candraprabha's former wife with a hundred thousand taels of treasure, and further granted Candraprabha lands and fields as a gift.

King Brahmadatta of that time is Jiāpíluómóshēluó now. The elder Candraprabha is Mahākāśyapa now. And the servant girl Jǐluó was myself — and it is because of this that, having now encountered the Buddha, I have attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Nun Bhadrā).

In Śrāvastī there lived an elder's wife who bore a daughter, of rare and surpassing beauty; at her birth, she came forth already wrapped in fine, soft white cloth. Her parents, astonished, saw in this an auspicious sign, and so named her Shūlí (in the language of Liang, this means "White"). As Shūlí grew, the cloth grew together with her own body. This girl was so extraordinary that suitors, near and far throughout the kingdom, competed to seek her hand.

The girl told her parents: I wish to go forth as a renunciant. Her parents, loving her dearly, would not oppose her own wish, and set about removing the cloth, meaning to fashion it into the five monastic robes. The girl told her parents: what I already wear is entirely sufficient — there is no need to make anything further. I ask only that you allow me to go now to the Buddha, to bow before him and ask to go forth.

The Buddha said: welcome — and her hair fell away of itself, and the white cloth she wore transformed at once into the five monastic robes. She was placed under Mahāprajāpatī's own care as a nun, and, applying herself with diligence, attained the fruit of arhatship before long.

Ānanda asked the Buddha: what merit did Shūlí cultivate in the past, that she was born already wearing this cloth, and went forth to attain the path so swiftly? The Buddha said: in a past age there was a buddha named Vipaśyin, whose king, ministers, and people made lavish offerings to him. At that time there lived a woman named Tánnì'è, in the direst poverty; she and her husband together owned only a single cloth between them — should the husband go out, he alone wore it, while his wife remained naked at home; should the wife wear it, the husband sat naked in turn.

A monk who taught and encouraged giving came once to their household, and, seeing the woman, urged her: a buddha's own age in this world is rare to encounter, and a human birth hard to obtain — you should listen to the Dharma, and you should give in charity. The wife told her husband: there is a śramaṇa outside, urging me to see the Buddha, hear the Dharma, and give in charity. Her husband answered: our household is so poor — though we might well wish to give, what do we actually have to offer? The wife said: I wish to offer this very cloth of ours. Her husband said: you and I together own only this one cloth, going in and out to seek our own livelihood by it — should we now give it away, we should both surely die of exposure. The wife said: all who are born must die in the end — whether we give or not, death will come regardless; if we give, and then die, there is hope for us in the life to come; if we do not give, and then die, what follows after will only be worse. The husband, delighted, said: then let us share this death, and give it away.

The wife went back outside, and told the monk: great one, please record my own name on the list of donors. The monk answered: if you truly wish to give, you should offer it in person, that I might dedicate the merit for you directly. Shūlí — for it was she — said: this very cloth I wear is all I have; I have no other garment, and my own body is unfit to be seen unclothed. She went back inside, and, from within, lowered the cloth from her own body and passed it out to the monk. The monk, dedicating the merit, carried it to the Buddha.

The Buddha said: monk, bring me this cloth. The monk offered it, and the Buddha received it with his own hand, though the cloth was soiled and filthy. The king and the whole assembly there felt some faint unease that the Buddha should accept so soiled a cloth. The Buddha, knowing their thoughts, told them: I have surveyed this whole assembly, and no offering here is purer or greater than this cloth. The whole assembly, hearing this, was struck with awe. The king's own consort, delighted, at once removed her own jeweled ornaments and fine robes, and sent them to Tánnì'è; the king too, gladdened, removed his own robes and sent them to her husband, summoning them both to the assembly.

The Buddha told Ānanda: know that this poor woman, Tánnì'è, of that time, is this very nun Shūlí now. Because, in that life, she gave the cloth with a pure heart, in every place she has been born across the ninety-one kalpas since, she has always been born clothed already, lacking for nothing (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 7).

In the country of Kośala, King Prasenajit, hearing that Bhadrakāpilānī had gone forth as a nun, invited her into his own palace, to keep the rains retreat there together for the four months of the season. The king, going to the garden, told the gatekeeper: guard this gate well — do not let this nun leave. The gatekeeper thought to himself: this nun seems content to remain here, and will not try to flee. At that time, the gatekeeper being occupied elsewhere, the nun put on a court lady's own robes and left through the gate, and made her way to Jetavana, to hear the Buddha teach.

The Buddha, seeing her from a distance, said: welcome, Bhadrakāpilānī — and the court lady's robes fell away from her at once, her hair fell away of itself, and monastic robes appeared upon her body, restored to her own nun's form. She came before the Buddha, and bowed at his feet; the Buddha taught her the power of the four bases of supernormal ability, and she attained the power of supernormal flight then and there.

The king, hearing that Bhadrakāpilānī had fled, brought his own soldiers to surround the assembly of monks, and to surround the nuns' own quarters as well; the nun then rose and flew into the open sky. The king, looking up, was struck at once with remorse: how could I have thus defiled an arhat nun! — and, overcome with distress, fell to the ground, and confessed his own fault to her.

The nuns at her own monastery wished to drive her out. She answered: I hold no thought of desire in my heart at all. The other nuns said: you spent the four months of the rains retreat together with the king in his own palace — how can you say you held no desire? They reported the matter to the Buddha, who, though already knowing the answer, asked her directly: nun, did you truly experience any pleasurable sensation of touch? She answered: World-Honored One, how could I have experienced such a thing? I felt that very sensation of touch as though molten iron had entered my own body. The Buddha said: if you held no mind of desire in receiving that touch, you bear no transgression at all (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Well-Recited Portion, fascicle 2).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. In the town of Uśīnara, there lived a young householder who, out wandering for his own amusement, saw a woman named Utpalavarṇā, her beauty like the peach and plum blossom, every feature complete; his heart was drawn to her at once, and he took her as his own wife.

Not long after, she conceived, and was sent to give birth at her own mother's home; once the term was full, she bore a daughter. Because his wife remained occupied with the birth, unable to be near him, her husband secretly began an affair with her own mother instead. Utpalavarṇā, learning of this, left them both — for, with the bond between husband and wife thus broken, and fearing to burden her own parents, yet unwilling to abandon her infant daughter, she swallowed her own shame and returned to her husband's household, and raised her daughter there for eight years before finally leaving.

She traveled to Vārāṇasī, and, hungry, thirsty, and utterly exhausted, sat down by a stretch of water. An elder there, out on an excursion, saw her, and, drawn to her at once, asked: where is your own home, and to what family do you belong, that you sit here alone? Utpalavarṇā answered: I am the daughter of a certain family, but now belong to no one. The elder asked further: if you belong to no one, could you become my own chief wife? She answered: though a woman may already have had a husband, why should this not still be possible? He brought her home at once, and made her his own principal wife.

Utpalavarṇā managed his household well, keeping harmony among young and old alike, and husband and wife held each other dear for eight years. The elder then told his wife: I have outstanding debts owed to me in the town of Uśīnara, uncollected these eight years now, which, reckoned with their own interest, have grown to a vast sum — I must go now to collect them, and shall be apart from you a while. His wife said: the customs of that town are known for loose conduct among women — should you go there yourself, you might lose your own husband's own resolve. He answered: though I am of limited understanding, I would never fall into such disorder. She said further: if you must indeed go, I ask only to hear one vow from you first. He answered: very well — should any wicked thought arise in me, may my own life end together with it. And so he took his leave, and went to that town.

He had many debts to collect there, and so remained a full year. His own longing for home grew steadily deeper, and he thought: were I to commit any wrongful union, I would betray my own original vow — yet, were I to take a separate household here instead, that would not violate my own word. And so, seeking about, he came upon a young woman of refined and lovely appearance, whose own gaze held nothing improper in it, and the two of them grew deeply fond of each other; he went and asked for her hand. Her father, learning that he was a talented and wealthy elder, gave her to him gladly.

Once his own debts were fully collected, he returned to his own country, and settled this new wife in a separate residence before returning home himself. From then on, he would leave each morning and return each evening, unlike his usual habit before. Utpalavarṇā, finding this strange, secretly asked his attendants, who told her: there is a young wife — her husband returns to her each evening.

Utpalavarṇā asked him: you have a new household — why do you hide it from me, and not let me see her? He answered: I feared you would resent it, and so kept it hidden. She said: I hold no jealousy at all, and the gods themselves bear witness to this — you may bring her home, that she might help you manage the household. And so he brought her home — and it was, in fact, his own daughter.

Mother and child, seeing each other again, did not recognize one another. It was only later, while washing the young woman's hair, that Utpalavarṇā, examining her features closely, began to suspect who she was, and asked her about her own home region, her parents, and her family name; the young woman answered fully, and only then did the truth become known.

Her mother, struck with horror and grief, cried out: once I shared a husband with my own mother — now I share a husband with my own daughter! Such confusion of birth and death, come to this! Unless one cuts off craving and desire entirely, and goes forth to study the path, how could such inverted delusion ever be brought to an end? — and, with this, she abandoned them both and departed.

She came to the gate of Jetavana, hungry, thirsty, and utterly exhausted, and sat beneath a tree. At that time the World-Honored One sat teaching, surrounded by the great assembly; Utpalavarṇā, seeing so many people gathered, thought it must be some festival gathering, where food would surely be found, and entered the monastery grounds. There she saw the Buddha, the World-Honored One, teaching the assembly, and, hearing the Dharma, her own mind opened in understanding, and her hunger and thirst were dispelled entirely.

The World-Honored One then surveyed the whole assembly to see who was fit to be delivered, and saw that Utpalavarṇā alone was ready to attain the fruit of the path; he taught suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path, and, in that very seat, far from all dust and defilement, she attained the pure Dharma-eye. Having attained this fruit, she remained there, palms joined in single-minded devotion before the Buddha.

Once the Buddha had finished teaching, the assembly dispersed; Utpalavarṇā came forward, bowed at the Buddha's feet, and, kneeling with palms joined, said: I wish to go forth within the Buddha's own teaching. The Buddha granted this at once, and told the nun Mahāprajāpatī: you may now ordain this woman as a renunciant. She went forth and received the full precepts, and, applying herself with diligence, attained arhatship, complete in the eight liberations, her own countenance now radiant, surpassing even her former beauty.

Once, entering the city to beg for alms, a certain brahmin, seeing her, was seized with lustful desire, and thought to himself: this nun cannot be won openly — I must find her own dwelling, and devise some means. Later, when she had gone out again to beg, this brahmin slipped in and hid beneath her own bed. That day, the nuns had spent the whole night teaching the Dharma, and, exhausted, returned to their own room, lay down on their backs, and fell into a deep sleep. The brahmin then came out from beneath the bed, and committed an impure act upon her.

The nun rose at once into the open sky; and the brahmin, upon that very bed, fell, still living, down into hell (Source: Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 5).

The Buddha dwelt at Vulture Peak, in Rājagṛha. There was a courtesan named Padma, in whom a wholesome resolve arose of itself, and who resolved to abandon worldly affairs and become a nun. She set out on the mountain path toward the Buddha, and, not yet halfway there, came upon a flowing spring. Stopping to drink and wash her hands, she saw her own reflection, her own beauty and charm without equal, and thought to herself: why should I abandon all this to become a mere renunciant? Let me first enjoy a little more of my own private pleasure — and turned back toward home at once.

The Buddha, knowing that Padma was ready to be delivered, transformed himself into a woman of matchless beauty, surpassing even Padma's own, who came walking along the very same road. Padma, seeing her, was struck with admiration, and asked the conjured woman: where have you come from? Where is your own husband, and your family, inside and out? Why do you travel alone, with no companion at all? The conjured woman answered: I have come from the city, and am on my way home; though we are unacquainted, we might return together as far as the spring ahead. Padma agreed, and the two of them went back together to the spring, speaking intimately of their own lives.

The conjured woman then lay down to sleep, her head resting on Padma's own knee — and, in a mere instant, her life suddenly ended. Her body swelled and rotted, giving off a foul stench, her belly burst open and worms poured forth, her teeth fell out, her hair came loose, and her very flesh came apart. Padma, seeing this, was struck with great terror: how could someone so beautiful meet with impermanence so suddenly? If even she could come to this, how much longer could I myself possibly last? Terrified, she resolved to go to the Buddha and apply herself diligently to studying the path.

She went at once before the Buddha, threw her whole body to the ground in homage, and told him all that had happened. The Buddha told Padma: there are four things in this world a woman cannot rely upon: first, youth and vigor must in the end return to old age; second, strength and health must in the end return to death; third, the joyful company of one's own closest kin must in the end come to separation; and fourth, wealth and treasure once accumulated must in the end be scattered and lost.

Padma, hearing this teaching, understood it with joy, and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Woman Padma).

Southeast of Śrāvastī, out in the ocean, there stood a raised platform, its surface covered in fragrant flowers and pure, clean trees. Five hundred brahmin women, who served a non-Buddhist teaching with great diligence, and knew nothing of the Buddha, gathered there.

These women said among themselves: we, born and formed as women, are governed from youth to old age by three constraints, never free to act as we ourselves wish; our own lives, moreover, are brief, our bodies like illusions destined soon for death. Better that we go together to this platform of fragrant flowers, gather flowers there, and keep a diligent fast, to entreat Brahmā himself, and seek from him this wish: to be reborn in the Brahmā heaven, with long life and freedom from death, and there to obtain true independence, free of every constraint and restriction, free of all reckoning of past transgression, and free of further care or grief.

They carried offerings to the platform, gathered fragrant flowers, and served Brahmā there, keeping a single-minded fast, praying that the honored deity might deign to appear before them.

The Buddha, seeing their hearts fit to be delivered, flew there through the open sky together with the great assembly, and, arriving at the platform, sat beneath a tree. The women, delighted, said to one another: this must be Brahmā himself, come to console and congratulate us — our own wish has been granted!

One of the devas present then told the women: this is not Brahmā at all — this is the most honored being throughout the three realms, called the Buddha, who delivers beings beyond number.

The women said to the Buddha: we, so laden with defilement, now reborn as women, seek release from every constraint, and wish to be reborn in the Brahmā heaven. The Buddha said: women, it is truly excellent that you have given rise to such a wish. In this world there are two matters whose retribution is entirely clear: doing good brings blessing; doing evil brings misfortune. There is the suffering of this world, and the pleasure of the heavens; there is the vexation of conditioned existence, and the stillness of the unconditioned — who among you can truly discern and seek out what is genuine? How excellent, women, that you already hold such a clear resolve.

The World-Honored One then spoke this verse:

"Who can truly choose their own ground, / setting aside mere constraint to seek the heavens themselves? / Who can expound the very verses of the Dharma / as one selects only the finest flower? / To know the world's own fragile, molded arguments, / illusory phenomena arising suddenly and passing — / to cut off Māra, and let the true flower open — / this alone is not to witness birth and death at all."

The women, hearing this verse, resolved to study the true path, and become nuns; their hair fell away of itself, and the Dharma robes appeared complete upon them. Contemplating in stillness, they attained the fruit of arhatship at once (Source: Dharmapada with Illustrative Tales, fascicle 3).

The monk Udāyin traveled to the country of Kośala, and came to stay in the mango grove of a brahmin nun of the Viṣṇukāntāyana clan. Some of her own disciples, out gathering firewood, came to the mango grove, and saw Udāyin sitting beneath a tree, his countenance dignified, his every faculty stilled, his mind composed and settled, having achieved the highest degree of self-mastery. They went to him, greeted him, and sat to one side; Udāyin then taught these young women the Dharma in various ways, and, having encouraged and instructed them, fell silent.

The young women, delighted with the teaching, gathered up their bundles of firewood and returned to their own teacher, telling her: preceptor, there is a śramaṇa in the grove, of the Gautama clan, who teaches the Dharma most excellently. The nun told her disciples: go and invite him to a meal tomorrow. The disciples, following her instruction, went and extended the invitation; the venerable one said nothing in reply, and they returned and reported this to their teacher — he had, in fact, accepted.

When the night had passed, Udāyin robed himself, took up his bowl, and went to the nun's own dwelling. Seeing him approach from a distance, she prepared a seat and invited him to sit, and offered every kind of food and drink, serving him abundantly with her own hands until he was fully satisfied; once he had rinsed his mouth and washed his bowl, he returned to his own seat.

The brahmin nun then put on fine leather shoes, covered her own head with a cloth, and had a separate high seat set out for herself, displaying an air of arrogance, and said to Udāyin: I wish to ask you something — do you have leisure to answer me now, or not? He answered: sister, now is not the proper time.

The next day, her disciples again went to the grove to gather firewood and hear the teaching, and reported this again to their teacher; she again sent an invitation to a meal, as before, and this happened three times in all, each time followed by a request for teaching — and each time he answered: now is not the proper time.

The disciples said: our own teacher does not sit with proper reverence — how then could he possibly teach her? The teacher said: if that is so, invite him once more on my behalf. They did as instructed, and invited him again, and served him as before. This time, once the meal was finished, the teacher removed her own leather shoes and outer robe, and sat instead upon a low seat, and, with proper reverence, said: I wish to ask you something — might you answer me now? He answered: only ask, and I shall teach you.

She then asked: is it said that suffering and pleasure are self-caused? Or that suffering and pleasure are caused by another? Or that suffering and pleasure are caused by both self and other together? Or that suffering and pleasure arise from neither self nor other? He answered: sister, the arhats teach that suffering and pleasure arise dependently, through causes and conditions. She asked further: what is the meaning of this? He answered: they arise from their own respective causes and conditions.

She said: let me ask you this in turn, and answer me as you will — do you have eyes? He answered: I do. Are there forms to be seen? He answered: there are. Does eye-consciousness, and contact through the eye, and, through the condition of that contact, does sensation arise — an inner experience, whether of suffering, or of pleasure, or of neither suffering nor pleasure? He answered: it is so. Udāyin said: this is exactly what the arhats teach — that suffering and pleasure arise from their own respective causes and conditions.

As the venerable one taught this Dharma, the brahmin nun, far from all dust and defilement, attained the pure Dharma-eye. Rising from her own seat, straightening her own robes, and, with palms joined in reverence, she said to the venerable one: today I have leapt directly into certainty. From this day forward, I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṅgha, and shall rely upon the Three Jewels for the rest of my life (Source: Sūtra of Udāyin's Seated Stillness and Self-Mastery).

Long ago, in the kingdom of Kośala — Śrāvastī was its capital — there lived a band of dissolute and lustful men, given entirely over to violence. In that kingdom, the nuns would sit in single-minded contemplation of the true path beneath the trees, never once setting aside their own resolve; among them, one nun, foremost in wisdom, was named Kṣamā, and another, foremost in supernormal power, was named Padmaśrī — each of exceptional virtue and majestic spiritual bearing.

One warm day, the two went together to bathe at the water's edge. The band of violent men, seeing them from a distance, gave rise to a wicked intent, their lustful desire mounting, and resolved to violate them. Waiting until the nuns had removed their own robes and entered the water to bathe, they rushed forward, seized their clothing, and carried it off to a distant place, meaning to drag the nuns there and violate them.

The nun, filled with sorrowful compassion for these men rather than fear, then removed her own two eyes, and held them in the palm of her hand, showing them to the assailants: what you love in me is only the color of my own face — but here, already blind, with no eyes at all — what is there left to find beautiful? She then showed them her own belly and entrails, her body's own organs, her hands and feet, each set apart and cast to one side, and said to the violent men: where, now, is this beauty you sought?

The assailants, seeing this, were struck at once with terror, and understood the impermanence of the world, and how all beings within the three realms are but temporary lodgers there, their own bodies reducible, in the end, to bone, blood, and impurity, with nothing in them truly worth craving. They returned the nuns' own robes at once, bowed their heads, and repented of the shameless act they had intended, admitting their own wrongful and unreasoning violence, and asked to be spared its consequence. Kneeling with palms joined, each of them received the five precepts, and they were brought before the Buddha, where they bowed their heads to the ground, and confessed their own transgression themselves (Source: Sūtra of Past Lives, fascicle 4; also found in the Vinaya).

The elder Sudatta had an old servant woman, named Vilotā, diligent and careful in managing his household affairs, entrusted with the keys to his entire storehouse. Sudatta, in inviting the Buddha and the Saṅgha and supplying their every need, found that the monks tending the sick required a great many things, and the old woman, stingy and resentful, came to harbor anger toward the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṅgha, saying: my own master is foolish and deluded, taken in by these śramaṇas' own tricks — their demands are endless; what path could there possibly be in this? Having said this, she further made this wicked wish: when shall I be free of even hearing the names of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṅgha?

Lady Mallikā, hearing of this, said: how can Sudatta, so like a fine lotus flower himself, keep four poisonous snakes in his own household? She summoned Sudatta at once, and told him: send your wife to me. When his wife arrived, she told her: your household's own old servant speaks such vicious slander — why do you not drive her out? His wife answered: the Buddha's own appearance in this world benefits so many — how much more should it benefit even an old servant? The lady, hearing this, was filled with joy: I wish to invite the Buddha — send this servant to me tomorrow, when he arrives.

The elder sent the servant, carrying a jar filled with gold and a canopy of maṇi pearls, to help the royal household make offerings to the assembly of monks. When the Buddha entered the gate, the old servant, seeing him, felt no joy at all, and at once tried to slip away through the dog's own entrance — but the dog's entrance, and every side passage in every direction, closed off at that very moment, leaving only the main path open. The old woman covered her own face with a fan; yet the Buddha stood directly before her, and made the fan itself as clear as a mirror, with nothing to obstruct her sight. Turning her head in every direction, she saw the Buddha everywhere she looked; bowing her head to the ground, even her own ten fingers transformed into images of the Buddha.

The old woman, seeing the Buddha and these many manifestations, had eighty million eons of transgression removed from her, and, though she still did not give rise to faith, this alone was enough to turn back the offense that would otherwise have bound her to further birth and death.

The Buddha, seeing her transformed body still before her, and the servant, fleeing back to her own home, shut herself inside a wooden cage, wrapping her own head in white cloth, still fearing to see the Buddha again. The Buddha said: this servant's own transgression is too grave for a connection with myself to reach her — but Rāhula holds a great karmic connection with her; let him be the one to transform and guide her.

Rāhula, receiving the Buddha's own majestic power, entered the absorption of wish-fulfillment, and transformed himself into the very form of a wheel-turning sage king; the twelve hundred and fifty monks transformed themselves into his own thousand sons, Ānanda became his treasury minister, and Nanda his minister of arms, the seven treasures and four divisions of his army all complete. The golden wheel-treasure hung in the open sky; riding a lotus-flower platform, he went directly to the household of the great elder Sudatta. A yakṣa proclaimed: a sage king has appeared in the world, to banish every wicked person, and proclaim the good teaching abroad!

The old woman, hearing this, was filled with great joy: when a sage king appears, he holds a wish-fulfilling jewel, and grants whatever is asked — this is something worth speaking of! The sage king then, sounding bells and beating drums, riding a great jeweled carriage, arrived at Sudatta's own household. The old woman, seeing him, was overjoyed: a sage king's own appearance in the world benefits so many, distinguishing good from evil clearly — he would surely never be deceived by mere śramaṇas as I have been — and came out from her own wooden cage, and bowed reverently to the sage king.

The sage king then sent his own treasury minister to go to the woman, and tell her: sister, you have accumulated merit in past lives fit for a king's own consort — a sage king now wishes to make you his own Jewel-Woman treasure. The old woman said: my own body is lowly, no better than filth — how could I, whom even the sage king regards now with such boundless favor, possibly be fit for such an honor? If he truly holds me in such regard, let him only command my own master to release me from service — that alone would already be more than enough.

The sage king then told Sudatta: your household's own old woman carries every auspicious mark — I wish now to make her my own Jewel-Woman treasure. Sudatta answered: I obey your command entirely, great king. The old servant, hearing herself released, was overjoyed beyond measure.

The sage king then used his own wish-fulfilling jewel to illuminate the woman's face, letting her see her own reflection — she appeared now exactly as a true Jewel-Woman treasure should. Overjoyed all the more, she said: these śramaṇas speak such lofty, grandiose words, claiming to possess the path, yet with nothing at all to show for it — while this sage king's own appearance in the world has brought such vast benefit, transforming even a wretched old woman like myself into a true Jewel-Woman treasure! Having said this, she threw her whole body to the ground in homage before the sage king.

The treasury minister then proclaimed the king's own gracious edict, expounding the ten wholesome actions. The woman, hearing of the ten wholesome actions, was filled with joy, and said: everything this sage king has taught is entirely good — and bowed before the king, repenting and reproaching herself for her own past conduct. Her heart now truly subdued, Rāhula then reverted to his own original form.

The old woman, raising her head, saw the twelve hundred and fifty monks before her, and said: the Buddha's own teaching is truly pure, abandoning no being at all — even one as wretched as myself has been delivered by it! Having said this, she asked to receive the five precepts. Rāhula then taught her the threefold refuge and the five precepts; hearing this teaching, before she had even finished raising her own head, she attained the fruit of stream-entry.

Rāhula then brought the old woman to the Jetavana grove; arriving there, and seeing the Buddha, she joined her palms in joy, bowed, repented, and asked the Buddha to let her go forth. The Buddha told Rāhula: bring this woman to Mahāprajāpatī. Before they had even reached her, Rāhula taught the old woman the teachings of suffering, emptiness, impermanence, and non-self; hearing this, her hair fell away of itself, and she became a nun, complete with the three knowledges, the six supernormal powers, and the eight liberations.

King Prasenajit and Lady Mallikā, filled with great joy, said to the Buddha: World-Honored One, what past transgression did this old woman carry, and what blessing brought her now to attain the fruit of arhatship?

The Buddha told the great king: in a past kalpa, there was a buddha, the World-Honored One, named Ratnacchattra-dīparāja. After that buddha's own final nirvāṇa, in the age of the semblance Dharma, there was a king named Vicitraratna-puṣpaprabha, who had a son named Fine-Sight, who wished to go forth; his father consented. The prince went to the monks' own quarters, seeking to go forth. There was a monk there, wise and learned, of deep understanding of true reality, who accepted him as a disciple; there was also another monk, named Guṇapuṣpaprabha, skilled at teaching the essentials of the Dharma to guide new students.

Though the prince-monk had gone forth, he still harbored his own pride. His preceptor taught him the exceedingly profound and sublime meaning of the Prajñāpāramitā, the great teaching of emptiness. The prince, hearing this, misunderstood it as heretical teaching, and, after that monk's own death, said: my own great preceptor was empty of any true wisdom at all, capable only of praising empty, meaningless matters of void — I wish never to see him again, in any life to come. My own instructor, by contrast, possessed true wisdom and eloquence — I wish him to remain my good spiritual friend in every life to come.

Having said this, the prince-monk went on to teach the true Dharma as false, and the false as true, instructing his own followers, all of whom took up wrong views because of him. Though he still upheld the precepts outwardly, his own conduct never faltering, because of this fundamental misunderstanding, the instant his own life ended, in less time than it takes an arrow to fly, he fell into the Avīci hell, and there suffered great torment across eighty billion kalpas. Emerging from that hell, he was reborn as a poor and lowly person, deaf, foolish, and blind, made to serve others as a servant.

That preceptor of that time was myself; that instructor was Rāhula; and that prince-monk is this very old woman now (Source: Sūtra on the Samādhi of Buddha-Contemplation, fascicle 6).

There was a brahmin woman of the Vāsiṣṭha clan, whose six sons had died, one after another; grieving for them, she went mad, running along the roads, her hair unbound, her body unclothed. Seeing the World-Honored One from a distance, she came to her senses at once, and, overcome with shame, gathered herself and crouched down. The Buddha told Ānanda: take your own upper robe, and give it to her to wear, that she might hear the Dharma. Ānanda gave her the robe, and she came before the Buddha, bowed, and paid homage; the Buddha taught her the Dharma, instructing, guiding, inspiring, and delighting her, and she took the threefold refuge, becoming a lay follower, and departed in joy.

Later, her seventh son died as well — yet this time she did not weep at all. Her husband, in verse, asked her:

"When our other sons died before this, / grief for them consumed you entirely; / day and night you would not eat or drink, / until at last you fell into madness. / Now our seventh son too has been lost — / why do you alone show no grief at all?"

His wife answered:

"Children and grandchildren beyond all counting / are born through the coming together of causes and conditions; / through the long night of time they pass away in turn — / this holds true for you and for me alike. / Wherever such beings are born, / they devour one another in endless succession — / if one truly understands the essence of birth, / what cause is there left for grief? / I have come to know release — / it is for this that I grieve no more."

Her husband said:

"Such a teaching I have never heard before, / yet now I hear it from your own mouth — / where did you hear this true Dharma, / that you no longer grieve for our children?"

His wife answered:

"The Fully Awakened One, in this very age, / has forever left behind all suffering — / he teaches suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path, / and, at peace, moves toward nirvāṇa itself. / I have come to know this true Dharma, / and it has opened, for me, this grief over our children."

Her husband said:

"Then I too shall go now / to the mango grove at Maiśilī, / and, before that very World-Honored One, / seek release from this grief over our children."

His wife answered:

"Behold the Fully Awakened One's own / gentle, golden-hued body — / he tames even those still untamed, / and delivers all beings without limit."

The husband went and saw the Buddha, who spoke this verse to him:

"Suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path — / turn toward nirvāṇa itself; / whoever sees this Dharma directly / attains what has no equal."

Hearing this Dharma, his mind opened in understanding, and he went forth under the Buddha; contemplating in solitude and stillness, he attained arhatship. His wife, and their granddaughter Sundarī-Nandā, likewise went forth, and both reached the very limit of suffering (Source: Saṃyukta Āgama, fascicle 34).

In Śrāvastī there lived a widow, alone and without support, who had borne a single daughter, now seventeen years old, of dignified and lovely countenance, though so poor that her clothing scarcely covered her own body. The mother sustained them both by begging; the daughter herself was chaste, virtuous, and clear-minded, widely read in the scriptures, keeping her own conduct within the household and never once stepping outside its door — though it stood near the king's own road, and her secret heart's wish was to marry a king, and to serve the divine just as the Buddha himself was served.

One day the king, traveling through his own realm, saw a crow perched cawing on the poor girl's own doorway, and raised his bow to shoot it. The crow, struck by the king's own arrow, fled with the shaft still in it into the girl's household. The king's attendants pursued the crow into the house; the girl did not show her own face, but simply drew the arrow out, released the crow, and tossed the arrow back outside. The king's men, seeing this, sensed she was no ordinary person.

A year later, the king's own chief consort died. He sought a new consort, but none among those proposed seemed fitting, and he inquired widely throughout his own realm. His attendants told him: there was, some time ago, the daughter of a poor, solitary widow, from whom your own arrow was retrieved — she is sixteen or seventeen now; though we never saw her face, the sight of her hand and the sound of her voice suggested someone of noble bearing.

The king went himself to see her, and summoned her to come; he had a physiognomist sent to her own household first, going directly inside. The girl's mother was away, and she was alone. The messenger called for her to come out; three times he called, and she did not answer. He said: girl of this poor household, come out! She answered: talented or not, each family has its own child — who are you, that you burst so rudely into my own house? Get out of my door at once! The messenger said: the king himself has sent me to summon you — how dare a girl of so lowly a household speak this way? She answered: what business does the king have, that he sends you here? If he seeks me as a mere servant, my own household has broken no law of his; if he seeks me as a wife, then you yourselves would be my own attendants — how dare you treat a poor household with such contempt, forcing your own way in and threatening a woman like this? A woman, however humble, still has her own destiny, and shall not be cowed by mere show of authority. Report this to your king as it is. The messenger did not dare answer further, and reported the whole matter to the king exactly as it had happened.

The king then commanded his own officials to prepare a grand procession with full ceremony, sending five hundred attendant women to receive her. The envoys carried offerings of cattle, sheep, pigs, and wine as betrothal gifts; the chief envoy rode a black-canopied carriage drawn by five horses to receive the girl, preceded by a hundred thousand elite soldiers, followed by a thousand carriages, ten thousand fine horses, and a hundred and twenty thousand attendants on foot, bells ringing and drums sounding loud enough to shake heaven and earth, with countless onlookers gathering as the procession arrived at the girl's own door.

The envoy descended from his carriage and announced the king's own respects. The girl sent this reply: my thanks to the envoy and to every official and officer present, for the great trouble of this long journey — that a poor and lowly girl such as myself should not be overlooked, but instead troubled by such an entourage, and honored by the king's own weighty command. I have, through some accident of past merit, come to this — yet, weighed against the steps of a royal palace, I must reckon myself plain and unworthy: my own virtue lacks the proper bearing of a lady, my own appearance lacks the color of peach blossom or udumbara flower, my own voice lacks the pleasing quality of string and flute, my own understanding lacks the clarity of the sagely and great, my own knowledge lacks the sage's own vision reaching ten thousand miles, my own body lacks the lustrous sheen of fine gold, my own scent lacks the fragrance of sandalwood or musk, my own speech lacks the beauty of loyal, gentle, and benevolent words, and my own conduct lacks any proper measure of advance or retreat, high or low. To wrongly accept the king's own command now would only trouble everyone who has come to see me in vain.

The envoy and every official present, hearing this, could not help but sigh in admiration. She then spoke to the attendant women: you have all, through thin fortune, fallen into this lowly service — from this day forward, as we work together, let each of you set your own heart right, and cultivate good conduct, and never transgress the proper bearing due a king's own household. The five hundred attendant women all answered as one: we obey. She then summoned the two thousand five hundred servant-girls as well, and told them: among people there is no true noble or lowly rank — only the presence of the path itself is truly honored. You are all children of good people, and it is only the shifting fortunes of past and present that have placed you now in humble station — do not, because of this, think yourselves unworthy, but strive instead to do good. They all answered together: we shall follow your instruction.

The officials then presented the ceremonial gifts befitting a queen: a thousand measures of gold, two thousand of silver, ornamental necklaces of crystal and lapis lazuli, luminous pearls, coral, and amber, a thousand bolts of plain white silk and a thousand of fine woven silk, embroidered and patterned brocades in crimson, purple, and green, robes of plain, yellow, red, and white gauze, and a thousand bolts of every kind of sandalwood incense. A hundred officials came forward bearing a hundred robes of a queen's own attire. The girl accepted these, and, once properly adorned, came out to take her own honored place. Every official, seeing her, rejoiced, proclaiming: ten thousand years to the kingdom — it shall surely know great peace now, having gained a true mother to its own hundred families and myriad people! The attendant women and servant girls alike drew close to her as though a child finding its own mother.

She gathered her own robes and mounted the carriage, which moved with perfect ease; the horses were calm and well-guided, the sky itself grew clear and bright, and white elephants gathered like clouds, trumpeting mournfully in procession behind her. Every official and subject said: a being from heaven has descended among us — our kingdom shall surely know lasting peace. Arriving at the palace gate, it opened of itself; her five hundred attendants entered the palace and dismounted, and within the palace a light of five colors arose of its own accord, illuminating the halls both within and without.

She entered the hall and bowed before the king, who, seeing her, was so struck with awe that he did not know what to do, and rose from his own seat to answer her bow. The chief consort, in audience before the king, bowed a hundred times, kneeling and rising with a grace like flowing water, kneeling and rising a full hundred times before stopping; the king knelt at length to answer her in turn.

Within the palace, she governed with gentleness, harmony, and benevolence, never once wounding another's own feelings; the king cherished and honored her greatly. She spoke sparingly, and always in accordance with what was right, so that everyone, within the palace and without, held her in reverent awe. She remained in the palace seven days and seven nights without sleeping at all, taking her ease together with the other consorts and attendant women — yet, though the king wished to see her himself, her own resolve was chaste and her heart pure, holding nothing to do with defilement, and, true to her own original purity of intent, she neither spoke with the king nor let herself be seen by him.

The king said: the very meaning of a household, the very bond between husband and wife, rests on mutual affection as its own foundation — yet my consort has been in this palace seven days and seven nights, and I have not so much as seen her. What is the meaning of this? Is this some rule of her own? The consort had her attendant women answer the king on her behalf: I made two vows in my early years — one of these has now been fulfilled; the other has not — and it is for this reason that I have not yet let myself be seen. The king asked: which have you fulfilled, and which remains? She answered: from my youth, I vowed that my own husband should be a king, and that he should serve the divine just as the Buddha is served. The king said: then let us meet just once — afterward, I shall go and invite the Buddha myself. She answered: no — until I have seen the Buddha, I shall never let myself be seen by the king at all.

The king, greatly angered, said: you were born of poor, lowly, begging stock — how dare you defy the wish of a sovereign of ten thousand chariots? She answered: a woman's own life is bound to her husband — east or west, I follow only his command; yet I hold a vow made long ago that I cannot betray. However exalted a king may be, he ought not to wrongly interrogate one who has done no wrong. The king said: I am the sovereign of ten thousand chariots — whoever transgresses against me is simply put to death; why should I trouble myself over questions of right or wrong? She answered: a king is father and mother to his own people — his judgments ought to follow what is right, not his own passing pleasure or anger; even an ordinary person would not act so carelessly — how much less a king?

The king said: whoever follows my own will is pardoned; whoever does not is put to death. She answered: a woman, too, holds her own small resolve of heart — only one who can follow that resolve may truly meet with me; one who cannot shall never meet with me at all. The king said: how, then, am I to invite him? She answered: the Buddha is present in your own kingdom — invite him, and he shall surely come. The king said: I fear the whole court will mock me for this. She answered: should the king invite the Buddha into the palace, and receive him in the hall, every official there shall in fact rejoice, and receive blessing across every generation to come — no one shall mock the king for this at all.

The king said: very good — and at once ordered the kitchens to prepare a feast fit for a hundred thousand guests, and sent a servant to tell the consort: the feast for the Buddha, fit for a hundred thousand, is now ready — you may go and invite him. She answered: a woman follows only her husband's own command in such matters — but the proper meaning of inviting the Buddha requires that the great king himself go in his own carriage, to meet the Buddha in person, and show him due reverence. The king said: whoever extends the invitation should go themselves — if you invite him, you go; I myself shall not go. She said: a king's own honor is exalted, and he is, besides, my own husband — a woman's own strength counts for less than even a king's slightest word. Should the king, setting aside his own majesty, go himself, even briefly, to meet the Buddha, only then would this truly be the household of a great king; otherwise, there would be no true bond of husband and wife between us at all — we should remain, in truth, strangers to one another. The king said: if we are not yet truly husband and wife, then this matter rests entirely on your own will.

The consort said nothing further, her own radiance shining forth, her countenance beyond the ordinary. The king, suspecting she might mean to take her own life, or flee, ordered the whole palace, within and without, placed under guard, sentries posted, the gates sealed shut, guards stationed so closely along every wall that not even a bird could pass, and the attendant women within the palace arranged so close together that not even a needle could fall between them.

The consort, knowing the king had no intention of going himself to invite the Buddha, and that he did not trust her either, then vanished upon the very dais where she stood — her whole body gone, nothing left to see at all. The thousand attendant women, together with the seventy-one other consorts, all looked at one another in alarm, and searched everywhere, within the palace and without, but found no trace of her at all.

The king, overwhelmed with shame and fear, rose weeping, and said: what now, what now? It is my own stubbornness that has brought this about — I shall regret it forever. By what means might she be brought back? The second consort said to the king: our chief consort is no ordinary person at all — the king ought to have followed her own wish, yet instead met her with resistance, anger, and harsh words. She must truly be a being from the heavens themselves. If the king has driven our chief consort away, what refuge remains for the rest of us, we seventy-one consorts? The attendant women and servant girls all wept aloud, as though someone had died; the ministers and courtiers, men and women alike, grieved and lamented as well: on whom shall our kingdom now depend? A hundred birds cried out in mourning, and heaven and earth themselves shook. The king, overcome with anguish to the point of wishing for death, wept toward heaven, his tears falling like rain; the people neglected their own trades, the markets stood empty, and small groups gathered everywhere in sorrow. For seven days and seven nights the king lay in bed, refusing all food.

The second consort said: let the king, at least, go and meet the Buddha, and invite him here together with the rest. The king went before the Buddha, bowed at his feet, and said: I am King Akāḍaliu of the country of Ajiraṇa — he said this three times over, delayed each time by matters of urgent state that could not wait even a single day.

The Buddha said: the affairs of state are indeed troublesome and burdensome, truly enough to weigh upon one's own spirit — are your officials and people, and the borders of your realm, at peace? The king said: all this we owe to the Buddha's own grace — I beg only that you might condescend to visit my own humble palace, and resolve this matter for me. The Buddha remained silent in assent.

Before long, the Buddha arrived at the palace hall, where the chief consort, together with three thousand five hundred and seventy-one other consorts and attendant women, all bowed before him. The king himself, at first, could not see his own consort at all, nor could the attendant women see her — only the Buddha could see her. The king, having paid homage to the Buddha, remained troubled and joyless. The Buddha told the king: the very consort you have sought is this person here before you now.

The king, seeing her at last, was overjoyed, and every official, consort, and attendant present rejoiced as well. The king laid out a feast; once it was finished, the Buddha pronounced a great dedication of blessing, and each person there sought the fulfillment of their own heart's wish.

The king said to the Buddha: my own chief consort was once the poor, lowly daughter of a solitary widow, and is now my chief consort, capable even of vanishing her own body through such transformation as this — what past transgression, and what merit, could account for this? How has she come to such honor above all others, becoming a mother to my own people, benevolent, virtuous, and wise, her every word gentle and never wounding — and how did she vanish for seven days, unseen even by man, spirit, ghost, or dragon?

The Buddha told him: your chief consort was, in a past life, a great and wealthy householder, whose riches were beyond counting, yet who was stingy and gave nothing away — this is why she is now born into poverty. That householder, moreover, was by nature given to lustful indulgence, delighting in relations with women — this is why she has now fallen into a woman's own body. Yet that householder also loved to keep company with learned scholars and practitioners of the path — this is why she now possesses such wisdom, and has already beheld five hundred buddhas in past lives, and now has encountered me as well. In a past life, moreover, she and you, great king, were close spiritual friends to one another — this is why you have now become husband and wife. Your chief consort, in past lives, served five hundred buddhas — yet, because her own resolve was not firm, and she troubled others in the world, she fell into a woman's own body because of this. Thirty-nine kalpas from now, your chief consort shall attain buddhahood herself. You too, great king, shall be reborn seven times in heaven, and seven times in the human world; and when you are reborn in heaven, your chief consort shall be a heavenly maiden there, attending you at your own side, always according with your own wishes. You and your chief consort made a vow together to die at the very same moment, and to remain together across every life to come, until both attain liberation together. You yourself, great king, should set aside your own arrogance and indulgence, and master your own emotions of joy and anger — you shall not see her vanish in this way again.

The king's heart was filled with great joy, and he attained the stage of non-retrogression at once. The Buddha then conferred the five precepts upon him, and the consorts, attendant women, ministers, officials, and the whole population of the kingdom all took up the five precepts as well. The chief consort, for her own part, received the ten precepts, keeping the three annual fasts and the six monthly fasts, and, together with three thousand five hundred and seventy-one women of the inner palace, devoted herself to doing good. The king's own governance grew broad and generous, and the kingdom came to know great peace; he built stūpas and temples adorned with the seven treasures, and all within his realm honored one another, with no thought of division between them. The people, when they died, all died of natural old age.

The king's own chief consort, awakening to the thought of the world's impermanence — that people, indulging day and night in lust and craving born of ignorance and defilement, live without gaining any true name of worthiness, and die only to become impure spirits — sighed at length, changed into plain clothing, disheveled her own hair and appearance, and came before the king, saying: everything under heaven is impermanent, and must in the end return to death. That which drew the king's own affection toward me was only my youth, my complexion, my smooth and glowing skin, my fragrant breath — yet all these are themselves impermanent, and must in the end return to death. The union of husband and wife holds, in truth, nothing extraordinary in it at all — it too is impure. Where there is such love and attachment, old age and sickness must follow; and when they arrive, with no fixed time set, who shall turn them back on my own behalf? I am now filled with dread, that calamity may strike suddenly, with no escape possible; and, whatever their own rank, high or low, all beings alike, through this one same cause, must in the end swell, rot, and stink with impurity — what use, then, is there in clinging so dearly to it?

The king reflected on this himself: what, in truth, is so extraordinary about the union of man and woman? What she says is the plain truth, and misses nothing of the matter. The king said: you are truly of the lineage of heavenly beings — what you speak is never false, and holds true in every particular, without exception. The people of this kingdom, men and women, young and old, all depend upon you — I ask only that you continue to watch over them, and keep them in your own thoughts.

The chief consort said: I am, after all, a woman, unable to govern myself entirely on my own account, and so I bring this before the king now — great king, please release me, that my own long-held original vow might be fulfilled. The king said: I am growing old now, and, though I have other consorts, attendant women, and young children, none of them truly suit my own heart as you do — you alone should remain to see out the rest of my years, and, once I have passed away, I would entrust everything that follows to you. Our crown prince is still young — how could you now abandon us, and where would you even go?

The consort said: I am weary of this ceaseless impermanence of birth and death, and its endless changes — I wish to seek from the Buddha to become a renunciant. The king said: you are mother to this whole kingdom, its highest consort — every consort in every allied kingdom, and every woman within this very palace, young and old, depends upon you. How could you suddenly resolve upon such a plan as this? Should distant and near alike hear of it, would they not mock us, saying that such a path is unfit for a queen of your own standing? You ought to reconsider this.

The consort said: the buddhas of the ten directions have all, without exception, come forth from among renunciants. The Buddha Kāśyapa's own king abandoned ninety-nine lesser kingdoms, and eight or nine thousand consorts and attendant women, to seek to become a renunciant himself; and, before and since, no small number of men and women alike have sought to become renunciants — I am not the only woman to wish this. The king holds me dear only out of desire and attachment to my own youthful beauty — yet this body of mine is nothing but pus, blood, and impure discharge in truth. It is difficult to have relations with women at all; there is no one who takes up relations with a woman who does not, in the end, fall into transgression through it. A woman's own body burns hotter than boiling water or fire — it scorches whoever comes near it, and causes them to fall into grave transgression, from which they cannot escape for a thousand kalpas. I myself, in a past life, was a man — yet, entirely because of relations with women, and the strength of that attachment, I lost my own male form and became a woman instead. Women are truly to be feared — the king simply does not perceive this.

Should the king's own heart still be unable to part from women entirely, there remain more than three thousand other consorts and attendant women, quite sufficient for his own pleasure — the king ought to release me, and not let this cause him further grief. Should I become a renunciant, I would rather die again and again than turn back from it — the king should encourage me in this, not try to hold me back.

The king said: if this is truly so, then what use do I have for this whole kingdom at all? The consort said: that the king can come to know impermanence is itself the king's own highest attainment. This land, the throne, every official, every attendant woman, every treasure, this very palace and city — none of it truly belongs to the king at all. What the king does possess — this body, these bones, this skull, these five organs — must all, in the end, come apart and scatter. What is there left to cling to so dearly?

The king said: today I shall allow you alone to go — yet I fear my other consorts and attendant women may follow after you as well. The consort said: each of them has her own destiny and store of merit, which no other person can hold in place — should you set guards and weapons upon them all, it would only happen regardless in the end; it can never truly be prevented. I ask only that my own release be granted; the king should console and comfort the others with kindness and affection, and they shall naturally draw close to the king in turn.

The king said: these women all cherish and delight in your own virtue — how could I, a single man, ever attend to them all so completely and well as you have? I have relied on you alone as their true guide — now that you leave me, these very women, blade in hand, might well come to fear me instead. The consort said: no — women, in truth, take a man as their own proper guide; should the king only give them his attention and draw near to them, they shall naturally find their own peace. The king said: then it rests with you.

The consort then summoned the three thousand other consorts and attendant women, and counseled them, saying: you, my sisters, should draw close to the great king with care, honoring his own exalted majesty, and never treat him with contempt. I now take my leave of you all — each of you, strive with diligence, morning and evening; devote yourselves to the scriptures and the teaching, applying yourselves ever more diligently. May I attain the buddha's own path swiftly, that I might return and deliver you all in turn.

The consorts and attendant women wept aloud together, their cries reaching even Trāyastriṃśa heaven. Śakra himself descended at once, and bestowed monastic robes upon her, which appeared upon her body of their own accord, her own hair falling away; he conferred upon her the five hundred precepts, and she became a nun. The consorts and attendant women all rejoiced greatly, and Śakra bestowed robes and an alms-bowl upon them as well, and they too became renunciants.

The king, having attained a genuine contentment, remained calm and free of anger, and, laughing with delight, said: how magnificent is the merit of these worthy ones — is this not truly excellent? He himself attained a glimpse of the path at once.

The king returned to his own palace, his mind still in a daze, and, going out, summoned the crown prince, and entrusted the whole kingdom to him. The king then made this vow: I too now wish to become a renunciant — who shall recognize this wish of mine? Śakra at once shaved the king's own head, monastic robes and an alms-bowl appeared complete upon him, and he followed the Buddha away. Twelve lesser kings likewise abandoned their own kingdoms to their own crown princes, and followed the king to become renunciants themselves — and all of them, together, attained the fruit of arhatship at the very same time.

King Akāḍaliu was myself; and the chief consort was Gopī (Source: Sūtra of the Poor Woman Who Became a King's Consort).

The Buddha dwelt in Vaiśālī, and told the monks: I have heard that, among the nuns, the one foremost in merit and virtue is Śrīmatī. At that time there was a famine in the land, and alms were hard to obtain.

The nun Śrīmatī, entering the city to beg, met a monk, and asked him: venerable one, have you obtained any food? The monk showed her his own empty bowl in answer; she at once took the food from her own bowl, and gave it to him. The monk, receiving this food, returned to the monastery, and called the other monks to share it with him. The monks asked: elder, where did you obtain such fine food? He answered: I received it from the nun Śrīmatī. The other monks, hearing this, each went in turn to ask her for food as well, and so it continued, one after another, until five hundred monks in all had received food from her — and only then did she seek food for herself. But the proper hour had already passed, and, having missed her own meal, she returned to the monastery without eating.

The next morning, the monks again robed themselves, took up their bowls, and came to stand at the gate of the nuns' own monastery. The nun, seeing them, went in at once, and told Śrīmatī: the monks are now waiting outside the gate. Śrīmatī, hearing this, told her own disciple: bring my robe and bowl — I shall go beg for these venerable ones. And so, once again, she supplied five hundred monks in turn before seeking food for herself — and, once again, the proper hour had already passed, and she returned without eating.

On the third day, the very same thing happened: she supplied five hundred monks in turn, and only a single monk remained unfed. This last monk followed behind Śrīmatī into one final household — but, her own body already weakened and depleted from three days without food, she collapsed to the ground in a faint (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 21; the same account is also found, consistently, in the Sarvāstivāda Vinaya and the Four-Part Vinaya).

There was a nun named Cañcā, whose own heart, given over to malice, slandered the Buddha and vilified the Saṅgha. The Buddha said: it is not only in this present life that she has done this. In a past age, beyond counting, there was a monkey king, who dwelt among the forest trees, eating fruit and drinking water, and who constantly wished that every creeping, breathing thing, every human and animal alike, might be delivered to the unconditioned state.

He had, as a close friend, a turtle, who came often to visit the monkey king, eating and drinking together with him, and speaking of true principle and right meaning. The turtle's own wife, seeing this, suspected some illicit affair, and asked her husband where he kept going. He answered: I have formed a close friendship with a monkey king — he is exceedingly clever and wise, and understands true principle well.

His wife did not believe this, and, feigning illness, lay collapsed and weak upon the ground, refusing to recover, and told her husband: my own illness is grave — only your dear friend the monkey's own liver could save me now. Her husband answered: I have entrusted my very life to him as a friend — how could I possibly use it to save you instead? His wife said: husband and wife are one and the same body — you give no thought at all to saving me, yet still hold this monkey in such high regard.

The husband, cherishing his wife, went to invite the monkey to share a meal together. The monkey answered: my own home is on dry land, while you dwell in the water — how could we possibly travel together? The turtle said: I shall carry you myself. The monkey agreed, and the turtle carried him partway, and then told the monkey: my wife is ill, and needs your own liver to be cured. The monkey said: why did you not tell me this sooner? My liver is hanging on a tree back home — I did not bring it with me; let us go back, and I shall fetch it, and then accompany you.

And so they returned; the monkey climbed back up into the tree, leaping about joyfully. The turtle asked him: you were to fetch your liver and come to my home — why do you now leap about like this instead? The monkey answered: there is no greater fool under heaven than you. We formed a close friendship, each entrusting our own lives to the other — and yet you would still see me brought to ruin.

That turtle's own wife was Cañcā. That turtle was Devadatta. And that monkey king was myself (Source: Sūtra of the Turtle and the Monkey).

The Buddha traveled in Śrāvastī, in the country of Kośala. King Prasenajit invited the Buddha and the Saṅgha to a meal within the palace. As the Buddha was about to go there, a nun named Cañcā, having tied a wooden bowl to her own belly to appear pregnant, came demanding one of the Buddha's own robes: it is you who have made me a mother, yet you provide neither clothing nor food — what account do you give of this?

At this, the whole assembly — humans and devas, Śakra, Brahmā, the Four Heavenly Kings, every deva and spirit, and the people of the kingdom alike — were struck with alarm. The Buddha is honored throughout the three realms; his own mind is purer than any maṇi jewel, his wisdom's own clarity surpasses the sun and moon; alone across the three times, none can equal him; he has subdued every heresy, and all ninety-six schools bow before him; his own virtue is majestic beyond any comparison, empty and formless as space itself, incapable of being defiled. The Buddha's own mind surpasses all things, without equal or peer. How, then, could this nun, herself his own disciple, harbor such malice, and seek to slander the Tathāgata in this way?

The Buddha, seeing the whole assembly's own doubt, and wishing to resolve it, looked upward. Śakra, king of the devas, descended at that very moment, and, transforming himself into a mouse, gnawed through the cord binding the bowl to her body; the bowl fell to the ground at once. The assembly, witnessing this, was overcome with a mixture of anger and relief, marveling at what had just occurred.

The king, in his own fury, said: this nun abandoned her own household and worldly pursuits to become the Buddha's own disciple — and yet, instead of praising the Tathāgata's own boundless merit, she has turned instead to jealous slander! — and ordered his attendants at once to dig a pit in the ground, meaning to bury her alive within it.

The Buddha then explained, and stayed his hand: do not do this — this is my own past transgression, not hers alone to bear. Long ago, in an age far in the past, there was a merchant who sold fine true pearls in great number, round, lustrous, and beautiful. A certain woman wished to buy them all, and the sale was nearly concluded — when a certain man came, raised the price still higher, and bought the pearls for himself instead. The woman, failing to obtain them, harbored deep resentment, and went to him, asking that he give them to her after all — but he would not. Her anger only grew: I had already agreed to buy these pearls, and you came and seized them out from under me — and now, when I ask for them again, still you will not give them to me. You have humiliated and shamed me — wherever I am reborn, I shall repay this grudge against you.

That man who bought the pearls was myself. That woman was Cañcā. This is the karmic root of the present matter, reaching back through past lives, not something confined to this single life alone (Source: Sūtra of Past Lives, fascicle 1).