Kings on the Bodhisattva Path

Long ago there was a king of Jambudvīpa named Qiánshénípólí, who ruled over eighty-four thousand villages, compassionate toward all beings, whose land enjoyed abundant, cheap grain, so that everyone lived in ease — yet this did not fully satisfy the king's own heart. He resolved: I must seek out the sublime Dharma, that I might truly benefit others — and proclaimed to all: whoever possesses the sublime Dharma, and will teach it to me, shall receive whatever they desire in return.

There was a brahmin named Láodùchà, who said: I possess this Dharma. The king welcomed him, bowed before him, and said: I beg the great teacher to expound the Dharma, and let me hear it. Láodùchà said: great king, only if you can, this very day, carve a thousand lamps into your own body, and offer them as offering, shall I teach it to you.

The king proclaimed throughout Jambudvīpa: in seven days, I shall carve my own body and light these lamps. The people, grieving, came before the king: our very lives depend upon you, as an infant depends upon its own mother — should you perish, what refuge would remain for us? How could you abandon everyone for the sake of a single brahmin? The king answered: do not, I beg you, obstruct my own resolve toward the unsurpassed path — I make this vow for the sake of this very deed: when I attain buddhahood, I shall deliver you all before anyone else.

The people wept, threw themselves to the ground in anguish. The king, undeterred, carved his own body, and set out the oil-wicks, and said to his great teacher: in your compassion, teach the Dharma now, and only then light the lamps — for, should my own life end too soon, I fear I shall not live to hear it. Láodùchà then spoke this verse:

"All that is constant must, in the end, be exhausted; / all that stands high must, in the end, fall. / What comes together must, in the end, separate; / whatever is born must, in the end, die."

The king, overjoyed beyond measure, ordered the lamps lit at once, saying: the Dharma I have sought is for the sake of attaining buddhahood itself, that I might illuminate and awaken all beings with the light of wisdom.

As he spoke this vow, heaven and earth shook greatly, the tremor reaching even the Pure Abodes above. The devas, seeing this great being give no thought at all to his own body or life, all descended together, crowding the very sky, weeping tears that fell like heavy rain.

The lord of the devas said to him: such pain and suffering as this — does your own heart not regret it? He answered: I do not regret it — and, with this, made a further vow: if my own heart, from beginning to end, holds no regret at all, may my body be restored at once, this very instant. And, in that very moment, his body was restored exactly as it had been before.

That king of that time was the Buddha himself (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 1).

Long ago, in Jambudvīpa, there was a great king named Pílíngjiélí, whose heart held a great love for the sublime Dharma. A brahmin named Láodùchà came to his palace gate and said: I can teach the Dharma — but only if you will let me drive a thousand nails into your own body shall I teach it.

The king said: across the countless deaths I have already suffered through birth and death, whether reckoning the piles of white bone left by the three poisons, taller than Mount Sumeru, or the blood I have shed, more than five great lakes, or the tears I have wept, more than the vast ocean itself — I have wasted this body and life again and again, yet never once for the sake of the true Dharma. Now, at last, let nails be driven into me in search of the path — for, when I attain buddhahood in time to come, I shall use the sword of wisdom to cut away every one of your own fetters. Take care not to obstruct my own resolve toward the unsurpassed path.

The whole assembly fell silent. Láodùchà then spoke this verse:

"All things alike are impermanent; / whatever is born carries suffering within it. / Every phenomenon is empty, without true arising — / truly, nothing is ever one's own."

The nails were then driven into his body. The king, upon this, made this vow: if my own resolve never wavers at all, let my body be restored exactly as it was — and his body was restored at once, exactly as before (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 1).

Long ago there was a country named Vārāṇasī, whose king, named Great Radiance, was compassionate toward all, never once thwarting another's own wish. A certain lesser king, ever harboring malice toward him, took note of how, on each monthly fast-day, King Great Radiance would load five hundred great elephants with treasure, clothing, and food, and give it all away freely in the great marketplace and at the four city gates.

An enemy of the rival kingdom, hearing that the king gave so freely, and indulged every person's own wish, grew envious, and gathered his own ministers together: who can go and beg King Great Radiance's own head from him? — a thousand catties of gold to whoever succeeds. A brahmin said: I can do this. The king provided him with what he needed.

As the brahmin traveled to the border of that kingdom, the earth itself shook in six ways; birds and beasts scattered in every direction; the sun and moon lost their own radiance, and the stars strayed from their proper courses; red, black, and white rainbows appeared constantly, by day and night alike, and shooting stars fell from the sky. Every spring and bathing pool within the kingdom ran dry.

As the brahmin arrived at the city gate, the gate's own guardian spirit told the gatekeeper: this man is deeply evil — he has come from afar to beg the great king's own head; do not let him enter. The brahmin was delayed there a full seven days, unable to proceed, until he told the gatekeeper: I have come from far away, wishing to see the great king. The gatekeeper went in and reported this to the king, who, hearing of it, came out at once to welcome him, bowing before him as a son before his own father, and asking where he had come from, and whether the long journey had exhausted him.

The brahmin said: I heard, in a distant land, that the king gives freely, never thwarting another's own wish, his own renown reaching upward to the very heavens and downward to the underworld itself — it is for this reason that I have come from so far, hoping to obtain something from you. The king said: I give everything asked of me — do not hesitate or doubt in the least. The brahmin said: is this truly so? I have no need of any ordinary object — I now wish to perform a great sacrifice, and beg the king's own head for it.

The king reflected to himself: since time without beginning, I have never once truly acted for the sake of the Dharma, wasting my own spirit through endless birth and death in vain. Now, with this body of mine, I seek enlightenment, having vowed this for the sake of all beings — should I fail to give it now, I would betray my own original resolve. By what other means, then, could I ever attain the unsurpassed enlightenment? The king said: very well — allow me first to settle the affairs of my own kingdom, and entrust my consort and crown prince with what follows; after seven days, I shall grant you your wish.

The great king then went into his own palace, and told his consorts: a brahmin wishes to beg my own head from me, and I have already granted him this. His consort and the crown prince, hearing this, threw themselves to the ground, weeping aloud, tearing out their own hair and rending their own garments, saying: great king, nothing in this whole world is held more dear than one's own body — how could you give it away to another man today?

The five hundred ministers said to the brahmin: what use could you possibly have for this rotting, foul, blood-and-pus-filled head? The brahmin answered: I have simply come begging for it — why do you question me? The ministers said: you have entered our own kingdom; it is we who should question you, and you who should answer us. The brahmin, though he wished to answer honestly, felt fear rising in him, dreading they might take his own life for it.

The ministers then said: we shall grant you safety from any harm on our own part, purely out of respect for the great king — but, poor brahmin, of what use could this head possibly be to you? Each of us five hundred ministers shall fashion a head of the seven treasures instead, and offer them to you in exchange, together with whatever else you require. The brahmin answered: I have no use for these. The ministers, their own hope thus dashed, wept aloud, and went before the king: how could you bear to abandon your kingdom, your consort, and your crown prince, forsaking them forever for the sake of a single brahmin? The king answered: I give up this body now for the sake of all beings.

The chief minister, hearing the king's own resolve now settled beyond recall, thought to himself: how could I bear to witness the great king give up his own body and life? — and, going into a quiet chamber, took his own life with a knife.

The great king then went into his own rear garden, and called the brahmin to him: you have come begging my head from me — out of compassion for you, I shall not thwart your own wish, that in a life to come I might obtain a head of true wisdom, and give it to beings such as you in turn. Having said this, he rose, joined his palms, and, bowing toward the buddhas of the ten directions, said: may the buddhas and bodhisattvas of the ten directions, in their own majestic power, protect and assist me, that this deed of mine might surely be accomplished — and told the brahmin: take it as you will.

The brahmin then said: the king possesses the strength of a mighty warrior — should the pain, when it comes, cause you to change your own mind, you might turn and harm me instead. If you are truly resolved on this, why not bind your own hair to a tree branch first? The king, hearing this, felt only compassion at these words, thinking: this brahmin is old and frail — should he prove unable to sever my own head, he would lose this great benefit entirely. And so he did as the brahmin suggested, binding his own hair to a tree, and told him: once you have severed my head, place it back into my own hand, that I might offer it to you myself, with my own hand.

The brahmin then took up his knife and came forward — but the tree's own spirit, at that moment, struck the brahmin with its own hand, and he fell to the ground, senseless. King Great Radiance then told the tree spirit: you have not helped me at all, but instead raised an obstacle against me! The tree spirit, hearing this, was struck with anguish, and cried out in pain — and, in the open sky, blood rained down from a clear sky, and heaven and earth shook greatly, the sun losing its own radiance.

The brahmin then, at last, severed the king's own head, and carried it back to his own country. The five hundred crown princes and all the ministers gathered the great king's own remaining bones, and raised a stūpa there in his honor, and made offerings to it.

The Buddha told Ānanda: that chief minister, who, unable to bear hearing that King Great Radiance had given away his own head, took his own life at once, is Śāriputra now. And that King Great Radiance was Śākyamuni himself (Source: Sūtra of the Great Skillful Means and the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness, fascicle 4).

This king applied himself with great diligence, regarding all beings as a mother loves her own child. At that time, there was no buddha yet in the world. Śakra, his own life nearing its end, thought to himself: where might I find a being of complete wisdom? He asked about this everywhere, without resolving his own uncertainty, and sat troubled.

Viśvakarman, the skilled deva of transformation, asked him: lord of the devas, why are you so troubled? He answered: I seek a being of complete wisdom, and cannot find one — this is why I am troubled. Viśvakarman said: there is a bodhisattva, perfect in giving, precepts, meditation, and wisdom, who shall attain buddhahood before long. Śakra asked who this was. He answered: it is King Śibi, of the Uśīnara clan. Śakra told Viśvakarman: let us test him now.

Viśvakarman then transformed himself into a dove, its own eyes and feet red, while Śakra transformed himself into a hawk, and flew swiftly after the dove, which fled straight beneath the king's own arm, its whole body trembling in terror, its eyes darting, its cries urgent and rapid. Many people who saw this said to one another: this king is compassionate toward all — he shall surely protect this creature, just as this small dove has taken refuge with him, as though entering its own home.

The hawk, perched nearby on a tree, called out to King Śibi: give me back my dove — it is my own prey. The king answered the hawk: I have already taken this creature under my own protection before you claimed it — from the very moment I first resolved on this path, I vowed to deliver all beings equally.

The hawk said: the king wishes to deliver all beings — am I not one of "all beings" as well? Why show compassion only to this dove, and take no pity on me, robbing me of my own food? The king answered: what food do you require? I have made a vow that, whatever being comes to take refuge in me, I shall surely protect and save — whatever food you require, I shall provide it to you as well. The hawk said: I require freshly killed, still-warm flesh.

The king thought to himself: such a thing is hard to obtain — apart from killing some other creature, there is no way to acquire it. How, then, could I kill one creature merely to save another? Having settled this in his own mind, he said: this very flesh of my own body is, in any case, bound already to old age, sickness, and death — before long, it would only rot and decay regardless; whoever requires it, I shall give it freely.

Having reflected in this way, he called for a knife, and cut flesh from his own thigh, giving it to the hawk. The hawk told the king: though you give me warm flesh, by rights its own weight should equal the dove's, exactly. The king said: bring scales, and weigh the flesh against the dove. He cut away his own flesh, piece after piece, giving it all to the dove's side of the scale, until at last the two sides matched.

He then reproached himself inwardly: you must hold yourself firm now, and not lose heart. All beings are sunk in this great sea of suffering, and I have vowed to deliver them all — why, then, should I falter over so small a suffering as this, when the suffering of the hells is so much greater still? I myself possess wisdom, diligence, precepts, and meditation, and yet still find this suffering hard to bear — how much more so those in hell, who possess no such wisdom at all!

As his own mind settled into this resolve, the earth shook in six ways; the great ocean's own waves rose high, withered trees burst into flower, and heaven rained down fragrant rain and scattered rare blossoms, while heavenly maidens sang in praise, certain that he would attain buddhahood.

Śakra asked the king: cutting your own flesh in such pain — has your own heart not sunk into distress? The king answered: my own heart is joyful, neither distressed nor sunk in despair at all. Śakra said: who could possibly believe you? The king then made this vow: if, in cutting my own flesh until the blood flowed, I felt no anger, no distress, my mind undisturbed throughout, seeking only buddhahood itself — then may my own body be restored at once. And, in that very instant, it was restored exactly as before (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 4).

In Śrāvastī there was a separate dwelling place, its own ground remarkably level and broad, where the Buddha once went and sat. Brahmā, Śakra, the Four Heavenly Kings, and various human kings, including King Bimbisāra, all said to the Buddha: we wish to prepare a high seat for the World-Honored One. The Buddha said: wait — I shall know the proper time myself.

Among the lay followers, those who held faith in non-Buddhist teachings each set out seats worth a hundred thousand pieces of gold; those who delighted in making offerings to the Buddha did the same, from the first day of the month to the fifteenth, the kings of Magadha and Bimbisāra offering support in turn. Amid all these seats, a lion-throne of the seven treasures appeared spontaneously in the very center, and the Tathāgata sat upon it; everyone then took their own seats.

A certain donor, on his own appointed day, offered the Buddha a willow twig for cleaning his teeth; the World-Honored One, having chewed it, cast it aside behind him, and it transformed at once into a great tree, its roots, trunk, branches, and leaves spreading thick and lush. The whole assembly, witnessing the Buddha's own spiritual power, rejoiced and praised him, marveling at what they had never seen before. The Buddha, the World-Honored One, then taught the Dharma through countless skillful means, bringing joy to all; at that time, hundreds of thousands of people in that very assembly, far from all dust and defilement, attained the pure Dharma-eye. Such manifestations of spiritual power, each different from the last, continued in this way each day until the fifteenth.

The whole assembly, witnessing the Buddha's own transformative power, rejoiced greatly; the Buddha taught the Dharma, and they attained the pure Dharma-eye. On the fifteenth day, King Bimbisāra of Magadha, together with King Bōluóshūtí, King Udayana, King Brahmadāna, King Prasenajit and Lady Mallikā, the elder Ṛṣidatta, Pūrṇa, and the whole great assembly, all made offerings of food to the Buddha and the Saṅgha; once the meal was finished, the bowls were set aside and water brought for washing.

King Bimbisāra then took a lower seat before the Buddha. The World-Honored One at that moment shifted from his own cross-legged posture, letting his own foot rest upon a low bench, and the earth shook in eighteen ways, six times over. At that moment, the wheel-mark beneath the Buddha's own foot — a wheel of a thousand spokes, its rim and hub complete, its every mark of a wheel perfect — shone forth with a radiance that illuminated the entire threefold world.

King Bimbisāra, seeing this, rose at once from his own seat, bared his right shoulder, knelt on his right knee, and said: World-Honored One, what merit did you cultivate in the past, to obtain this very mark?

The Buddha told Bimbisāra: in a past age, in the land of Jambudvīpa, there was a king named Benefits-All-Beings, whose kingdom was rich and whose people thrived, ruling over eighty-four thousand cities and five and a half billion villages; the city where this king dwelt was named Wisdom-Radiance. The king's own chief consort was named Wisdom-Deed, who at first had no children at all; seeking an heir, she performed rites and offerings to every deva, mountain, river, and spirit, seeking a wish granted everywhere she could.

In time, she conceived, and told the king: I am now with child. The king redoubled his own care for her, providing food, drink, clothing, and medicine in abundance. She later bore a son, of dignified and lovely countenance; on the very day of his birth, eighty-four thousand buried treasure-hoards spontaneously welled up from the earth, arranging themselves in rows according to their own kind. The king told the child's mother: let us name him Wisdom-Lamp.

The king later passed away. The crown prince, then only eight or nine years old, was taught by his own mother in every skill — writing, arithmetic, and horsemanship. At fifteen years of age, his ministers told him: the great king has passed away; you should now ascend the throne in turn. The crown prince answered: in a past life, I was a king for six years, and afterward fell into hell for sixty thousand years — it is for this reason that I cannot become king now. The ministers asked: is there some means by which you might yet become king? He answered: should every person of Jambudvīpa, man or woman, of any tongue that can speak, come to practice the ten wholesome actions, then I shall become king.

The ministers, hearing the crown prince's own command, proclaimed it in all four directions at once, and the people of Jambudvīpa all took up the ten wholesome actions, refraining from killing. The ministers reported this fully to the crown prince: you may now ascend the throne. The crown prince then ascended the throne himself.

His ministers told the king: at your own birth, eighty-four thousand buried treasures welled up spontaneously — these should now be gathered into the royal treasury. The king said: there is no need to store them there — and commanded instead that, at each place where a treasure had arisen, and at the crossroads of the four directions, offerings be given to śramaṇas and brahmins, the poor, and the solitary elderly. His ministers, obeying the king's own command, made these offerings at the crossroads before the gates of all eighty-four thousand cities, exactly where each treasure had arisen.

Śakra, king of the devas, then transformed himself into a man, and said to himself, as if in conversation: the king has taught me to practice the ten unwholesome actions! A minister, hearing this, reported it to the king: have you truly given such a command? The king answered: I earlier commanded only that every speaking being within Jambudvīpa practice the ten wholesome actions — I never said any such thing as this.

The king then rode his own jeweled elephant to where this man stood, and asked him: do you claim that I, Wisdom-Lamp, taught you to practice the ten unwholesome actions? The transformed man answered: indeed you did. The king asked further: can you now practice the ten wholesome actions instead? He answered: should I wish to accomplish the bodhisattva path, I would need to eat living flesh and drink living blood first — only then would I practice the ten wholesome actions in my own body.

The king thought to himself: since time without beginning, I have passed through every kind of suffering, transmigrating through the five realms, enduring slaughter upon slaughter already. He then took up a knife, cut flesh from his own thigh, caught the blood in a vessel, and offered them to the man, saying: good man, you may eat this flesh and drink this blood, and then take up the ten wholesome actions in earnest.

The transformed man then vanished from sight, and revealed his own true form as Śakra, asking the king: was this offering made for the sake of one world, or for all four continents? The king said: it was made only in seeking the unsurpassed path, to deliver those not yet delivered. Śakra then poured heavenly ambrosia over the king's own wound, healing it at once, and benefiting all beings.

That king, his own father, is my own father, the king, now; that chief consort is my own mother now; and that King Wisdom-Lamp was myself (Source: Four-Part Vinaya, fascicle 2).

Long ago there was a king named Great Strength, of great roots of goodness, who held a lavish charity assembly, granting every request made of him — food to whoever asked for food, and even elephants, horses, cattle, sheep, land, and property, all given freely.

Maudgalyāyana, seeing this, remarked: this is truly great giving. Śakra, king of the devas, then transformed himself into a brahmin, and went before the king, saying: you give so greatly — I now require a part of your own body.

The king thought to himself: this brahmin has no need of ordinary wealth at all — he has come now purely to undermine my own great charity assembly. Should I fail to give even a part of my own body, I would myself be the one to undermine this whole event. Having thought this, he said to the brahmin: I shall give you a part of my body — take whatever you wish. Yet, given that so many petitioners have gathered here from every direction today, I ought to see that all of them are satisfied first.

The brahmin said: even I, a single person, am not yet satisfied — why speak of the others at all? The king then took up a knife, and cut off his own arm, giving it to the brahmin without the slightest regret, his whole mind fixed single-mindedly on giving, holding back nothing at all. His arm was then restored, whole as before.

Śakra, having created this very obstruction, saw his own heavenly merit exhausted at once, and fell into the Avīci hell. That King Great Strength was myself; and that Śakra was Devadatta (Source: Bodhisattva-Piṭaka Sūtra, latter fascicle).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. At that time Ānanda, sitting in meditation among the trees after the midday meal, reflected: since the Tathāgata has appeared in this world, all beings have received peace and joy — what root of goodness, then, did Kauṇḍinya and the others cultivate, that they were the very first to enter the Dharma-gate as it first opened? He brought this thought before the Buddha.

The Buddha told him: Kauṇḍinya and the others — in a far distant past kalpa, in this Jambudvīpa, there was a great king named Mílá (Compassionate-Strength, in the language of Liang), with twenty thousand consorts and ten thousand ministers. This king, complete in the four boundless states of mind, never once grew weary or slack, taught his own people the ten wholesome actions, and was revered in every direction, his own land living in peace.

Plague-demons of that age constantly fed upon human blood — yet, at that time, the people, disciplining their own body, speech, and mind, practiced the ten wholesome actions so thoroughly that these malicious plagues could find no opening to invade at all, and the demons grew starved and weak.

Five yakṣas then came before the king, saying: we ourselves depend upon human blood and vital essence to sustain our own lives — yet, through your own teaching, every person now upholds the ten wholesome actions, and we are left starving and thirsting, with no way left to survive. Great king, in your own compassion, will you not have pity on us?

The king, filled with sorrowful compassion, at once opened his own veins, piercing his own body in five places. The five yakṣas then drank of his own blood, overjoyed beyond measure. The king told them: because you keep in mind the ten wholesome actions, I now give you the blood of my own body to relieve your hunger and thirst — and, when I attain buddhahood in time to come, I shall use the very blood of the Dharma-body's own precepts, concentration, and wisdom to remove the three poisons from you, and settle you in the peace of nirvāṇa.

That King Compassionate-Strength of that time was myself; and those five yakṣas are Kauṇḍinya and the others now — and it is because of this that I vowed, across every life since, to deliver them before anyone else (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 2).

Long ago there was a King Sutasoma, diligent and faithful to the precepts, always true to his own word. One morning, riding out with his own attendant women to enjoy his garden, he passed through the city gate, where a brahmin came begging. The king assented, saying: as I revere the Tathāgata, I promise — once I return from my own bathing and amusement in the garden, you shall have what you ask.

At that moment, a two-winged king named Kalmāṣapāda came flying through the sky, and, seizing the king from among his own attendant women, carried him off. The women wept and wailed in grief, and the whole kingdom was thrown into terrified confusion, within the city and without.

Kalmāṣapāda carried the king aloft through the sky to the mountain where he himself dwelt, and set him down among ninety-nine other captive kings there. King Sutasoma wept, his tears falling like rain. Kalmāṣapāda said to him: great kṣatriya king, why do you weep like a small child? All who are born must die; all who come together must part.

King Sutasoma answered: it is not death itself I fear — I grieve only at having broken my own word. Since my birth, I have never once spoken falsely. This very morning, as I left through my own gate, a brahmin came begging of me, and I promised him I would give to him upon my return — never expecting this sudden misfortune, and now I have failed him, incurring the very transgression of deceit against my own will. It is for this that I weep.

King Kalmāṣapāda said: since it is only the fear of false speech that troubles you, I shall permit you to return — complete your act of giving to the brahmin within seven days, and then come back here to me. Should you fail to return after seven days, I have wings enough to seize you again with no difficulty at all.

King Sutasoma, thus permitted to return to his own kingdom, gave freely as he wished, installed his own crown prince as king, and gathered his people together, saying, in apology: my own wisdom has never been complete, and my governance has fallen short of the true Dharma in many ways — I ask your understanding and forgiveness. This very body of mine, as of today, is no longer my own — I must now return to my captor.

The whole population of the kingdom, together with all his own kin, bowed their heads and begged him to stay: we beg the king to remain, and extend his own compassionate protection over this land — do not trouble yourself over this demon-king Kalmāṣapāda; we shall build iron chambers and gather elite troops — however formidable he may be, we need not fear him. The king answered: this cannot be — and spoke this verse:

"Truthful speech is the foremost precept; / truthful speech is the very ladder to heaven. / Truthful speech makes even a small man great; / false speech leads down into hell. / I now hold fast to truthful speech, / and would rather give up this body and life itself — / my heart holds no regret in this at all."

Having reflected in this way, the king set out at once for King Kalmāṣapāda's own domain. Kalmāṣapāda, seeing him approach from afar, was delighted, and said: you are truly a man of truthful speech, never failing your own word — for, though everyone alike cherishes their own life, and, once free from death, you might well have simply stayed away, you have instead returned to keep faith with me; you are truly a great man.

King Sutasoma then praised truthful speech at length: to speak truthfully is to be truly human; to speak falsely is to be no longer human at all — and, in this way, praised truthful speech and censured false speech in every manner. Kalmāṣapāda, hearing this, felt his own faith grow pure, and told King Sutasoma: I shall now release you, and the ninety-nine other kings as well, that you might all return to your own kingdoms. This is how the perfection of moral discipline is fulfilled (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 4).

Long ago there was a king named Sarvadatta ("Gives Everything" in the language of Liang), who never once refused a request made of him; his own renown spread throughout the eight directions. Mañjuśrī, wishing to test him, transformed himself into a young brahmin, and came to the king's own palace gate from a foreign land. The king, overjoyed, went out at once to welcome him, and asked where the renunciant had come from.

The brahmin answered: I have heard of the king's own merit, and have come to see you; I now wish to beg something of you. The king said: excellent — whatever you desire, do not hesitate to ask. The brahmin said: I wish to have the king's own body as my own slave, and the king's own consort as my own servant-woman.

The king, greatly delighted, answered: excellent — my own person, at least, is certainly mine to give; let me belong to you, renunciant, and serve at your own command. My consort, however, is the daughter of a great king — I must go and ask her first.

The king then went in and told his consort of this. She came out at once with the king, and told the renunciant herself: I too wish to give my own body to your service. The brahmin said: you shall follow me now — both of you must go entirely barefoot, wearing no sandals at all, exactly as servants are required to do, and answer only "yes, master" to whatever I command.

He then led the two of them, now his own slaves, along the road, while a transformed man took the king's own place, and his consort's, ruling the affairs of the kingdom exactly as before.

The consort, having long dwelt within the deep palace, unaccustomed to hardship, and, moreover, several months pregnant, followed on foot behind her own master, her whole body aching, the soles of her feet cut and bleeding, until she could go no further, and fell behind, utterly exhausted. The brahmin, turning back, reviled her: you are now a servant, and must act as a servant should — you cannot behave as you once did. The consort knelt at length and said: I would not dare grow slack or careless — I am only resting a moment, being so exhausted. He called out: come quickly! — and hurried her on behind him.

They arrived at last at the kingdom's own marketplace, and the two slaves were sold separately, each to a different master, their new households several li apart. A certain elder bought the king himself, and set him to guard a household; whenever anyone came to bury their own dead, he was to collect the proper fee from them, and no more.

The consort, meanwhile, belonged to a mistress who, out of sheer jealousy, made her labor day and night without rest. Some months later, the consort gave birth to a son in her own servitude. Her mistress, enraged, said: how could a mere servant such as you bear a child? — and had the infant seized and killed. Obeying her mistress's own command, the consort herself carried out the killing, and buried the child afterward.

She then went to where the king himself was, and the two of them met again; neither spoke of their own hardship, and neither harbored any resentment at all. As they spoke together in this way, in but a brief moment, everything dissolved as though it had been a dream — and they found themselves back in their own kingdom, seated in the main hall exactly as before, with no difference at all; every minister, every woman of the inner palace, was restored exactly as before as well, and the very son who had been born and killed was now spontaneously alive once more.

The king and his consort, their own hearts filled with wonder, could not understand by what cause all this had come about. Mañjuśrī then appeared, seated upon a jeweled lotus in the open sky, his own radiant form revealed, and said in praise: excellent — your own giving has proven so sincere as this!

The king and his consort leapt up in joy, and came forward at once to bow before him. Mañjuśrī then taught them the Dharma; the whole three-thousandfold world-system shook, and every person throughout the entire kingdom gave rise to the resolve for the unsurpassed, true path. The king and his consort, at that very moment, together attained the acceptance of the non-arising of all phenomena.

The Buddha told Ānanda: that king of that time was myself. That consort was Gopī. And that crown prince was Rāhula (Source: Sūtra of King Sarvadatta).

Long ago, in Jambudvīpa, there was a great king named Cūrapā, who ruled over eighty-four thousand lesser kingdoms, caring for and nurturing his own people. He thought to himself: I have only ever supported others with mere material wealth, never once with true spiritual teaching — this is indeed my own fault. He proclaimed throughout his own kingdom: whoever possesses the true Dharma, and will teach it to me, shall receive whatever they require in return.

Vaiśravaṇa transformed himself into a yakṣa, and came to the palace gate, saying: whoever wishes to hear the Dharma, I shall teach it to them. The king himself came out to welcome him, and bowed before him, gathering his own ministers together to hear the true Dharma taught.

The yakṣa declared: learning the Dharma is no easy matter — I require the king's own beloved wife and son, that I might feed upon them. The king at once commanded his own consort and crown prince be given to the yakṣa as food. His ministers all wept, but the king's own resolve did not waver. Once the yakṣa had consumed them entirely, he spoke this verse:

"All conditioned things are impermanent; / whatever is born carries suffering within it. / The five aggregates are empty, without any true mark; / there is no self, and nothing that is truly one's own."

The king's own heart was filled with joy, without the slightest regret, and he proclaimed this teaching to devas and humans alike, having them all recite and uphold it. Vaiśravaṇa then reverted to his own true form, and the king's consort and crown prince stood there again, restored, exactly as they had been before, and all present praised the king's own extraordinary resolve.

The Buddha said: that king of that time was myself (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 1).

Long ago there was a man-eating demon who had made himself king among men, constantly feeding on human flesh as his own kitchen's fare. Through wars against neighboring kingdoms, he had captured ninety-nine kings. These ninety-nine kings told the rākṣasa king: there is a king in a nearby land, named Auspicious-Constellation, who delights in giving and cultivates the bodhisattva's own virtue, never once refusing what is asked of him. Great king, should you manage to capture him too, we would gladly accept our own death without regret.

The rākṣasa king then raised his own demon troops, and went to watch for an opportunity. It happened, at that time, that King Auspicious-Constellation was touring his own outer garden, admiring a bathing pool.

There was, at that time, a young brahmin scholar who had taken leave of his own household to study abroad. It is the custom of brahmin scholars, upon departing, to tell their parents: I now leave home to pursue my own studies together with companions, and cannot say when I shall return; should my own funds run short, I shall borrow from the king, and repay it upon my return.

This young man, having completed his own studies, returned home only to find his own house empty, no one there at all. He asked his own neighbors: where are my parents, my brothers and sisters now? The neighbors answered: after you left to study, the money you borrowed from the king went unpaid, and your family was seized by the king's own officers, and now sits in prison.

The young man thought to himself: my own family is poor, our means slight, with no wealth of our own at all — should I go to the prison to see my own parents, I too would surely be seized, and share in their own suffering, unable to escape the king's own law. Better that I remain outside for now, disguise my own appearance, and seek by whatever means I can to repay the debt in full, and only then secure their own release.

He thought further: there is a king in a neighboring land, named Auspicious-Constellation, who cultivates virtue and the path, his own heart of giving never exhausted — I should go to him, and, with sincere and earnest words, ask for his help; he will surely not refuse me, and I shall have enough to repay the king's own debt.

He went to that king at once, and made his request. The king said: excellent — I shall provide for you. Only wait until I have finished bathing, and I shall give you what you need; wait a little, and do not worry — I shall not break my own word.

As the king went to his own bathing pool, he was seized by the demon troops. The king, looking back as he was carried off, wept in sorrow. The demon king asked him: we have heard that you are benevolent and gentle, loving toward all, sparing nothing to help others — though you now face such misfortune, why do you grieve so?

The king answered the demon: throughout my own life, I have given freely, and never once regretted it. Just now, a young brahmin scholar was waiting outside, asking for my help — I had promised him, but had not yet given it. It is for this alone that I grieve.

The demon king told him: your own faithfulness to your word has never once wavered from the start — I shall release you now, that you might complete your own act of giving, and return here once it is done, that I might come to know your own true heart for myself. The king, permitted to return to his own palace, opened his own treasury, and gave freely according to that young man's own need.

He then went at once, true to his own word, to the demon king's own domain. The demon king said to him: do you not fear me? Why have you come here, accepting your own death? Auspicious-Constellation answered in verse:

"To cultivate blessing, and never do evil, / follows entirely from one's own past conduct and its own law. / I shall never fear the road of death, / just as a boat cuts across a river's own current to reach the far shore."

The demon king, hearing this, felt shame rise within him, and, changing his own heart and conduct, resolved to cultivate the roots of goodness instead. He told King Auspicious-Constellation: what I have just heard is rare indeed to find among human beings. I now release the ninety-nine other kings, and give up this very throne myself — I ask that you, great king, take charge in my place, and govern by the true Dharma, while I lead my own demon-host back to our own den. Should we ever meet under the same law, I shall come to pay you visits from time to time.

And so they parted, each returning to their own place. The people of the whole land rejoiced, and the kingdom knew peace and order; together, they practiced the ten wholesome actions, and cultivated no unwholesome deed at all. King Auspicious-Constellation continued to accumulate merit without ceasing, and, in time, attained buddhahood himself — and, beneath the king of trees, he spoke this same verse once more (Source: Sūtra of Illustrative Parables [Chūyào jīng], fascicle 16).