Kings on the Śrāvaka Path

The king of Vārāṇasī, during the heat of summer, sat in his own high tower, upon a couch of the seven treasures, having his attendant rub ox-head sandalwood ointment onto his own body. This attendant wore many bracelets on her own arm as she rubbed the king's body, and the sound of the bracelets, filling his ears, greatly troubled him. He had her remove them one by one, until only a single bracelet remained, and, with only one, there was silence, no sound at all.

The king, at that moment, awakened, and thought: the affairs of state, my own ministers and people, my attendant women — all this bustle and trouble is just the same as this. And, in that very instant, freeing himself from desire, he withdrew into solitude, and, through contemplation, attained pratyekabuddhahood; his hair and beard fell away of themselves, and a robe appeared upon his body of its own accord. He left the tower by his own spiritual power, going forth to dwell in the mountains.

Such a cause and circumstance produces a middling grade of pratyekabuddha. There are those who vow to become pratyekabuddhas, and plant this very root of goodness; when the age holds no buddha, and their own merit has fully ripened, growing weary of the world, they go forth and attain the path in just this way, and are called pratyekabuddhas (Source: Sūtra on the Samādhi of Seated Meditation, middle fascicle).

The king of the country of Yuezhi, wishing to seek the buddha's own path, built thirty-two stūpas as offerings, one after another, honoring each of the thirty-two marks; he had completed thirty-one of them when a wicked man insulted him. The king's own resolve wavered: how could such a wicked man as this ever be delivered? — and, at that very moment, he redirected his own heart, setting aside birth-and-death, and turned instead toward nirvāṇa itself, building the thirty-second stūpa in search of his own liberation. Through this very cause, he attained arhatship.

It is for this reason that this monastery is named Prātimokṣa ("liberation," in the language of Liang). Less than two hundred years have passed since that time, and this monastery still stands — I myself have seen it (Source: Saṃyuktaratnapiṭaka Sūtra).

The king of Śrāvastī was named Prasenajit. At that time, to the south, there was a country called the Golden Land, whose king was named Kapphiṇa. His crown prince was named Mahākapphiṇa. When his father died, the crown prince ascended the throne; clever and bold by nature, he ruled thirty-six thousand lesser kingdoms, his own majesty and might reaching far and subduing all before it — yet he had never once had contact with the central lands.

A merchant later came to the Golden Land, and presented that king with four bolts of fine cloth. The king asked the merchant: this cloth is exceptionally fine — where does it come from? He answered: from the central lands. The king asked further: what is this central land called? He answered: it is named Luóyuèqí, also called Śrāvastī. The king asked further: why has the king of these central lands not come to pay me tribute? The merchant answered: each ruler holds sway over his own land, their own majesty and renown roughly equal — this is why he has not come.

The king thought to himself: I shall now demonstrate my own might, and force him to submit. He asked the merchant further: among the kings of the central lands, which is greatest? He was told: the king of Śrāvastī is foremost among them all.

Mahākapphiṇa then sent an envoy to Śrāvastī, carrying a letter setting out his own position in full detail, and telling that king: my own might reaches across all of Jambudvīpa — on what do you rely, that you have cut off all communication with me? I have now sent this envoy to make myself known to you; within seven days, you shall come to meet with me — should you fail to do so, I shall raise an army and destroy your own kingdom's borders.

Prasenajit, hearing this, was struck with deep alarm, and went at once to the Buddha, telling him the whole matter. The Buddha told the king: tell the envoy this in reply — there is a still greater king than I. The king, following the Buddha's own instruction, told the envoy: there is a sage king, nearby in this very place — you may go there yourself, and deliver your own king's message.

The envoy went to Jetavana. The World-Honored One had, at that time, transformed his own body into that of a wheel-turning king, complete with the seven treasures and full attendant retinue. The envoy, approaching, entered this transformed city, and, seeing the great king there, was struck with great awe, and presented his own letter.

The transformed king, receiving the letter, trod it underfoot, and told the envoy: I myself govern all four continents as sovereign — your own king's stubborn folly dares to defy and resist me. Return to your own kingdom at once, and proclaim my own command in full: on the very day this message arrives, your king must come running to pay me homage — should he be lying down when he hears it, he must rise at once; should he be sitting, he must stand at once. He has seven days, and no delay shall be tolerated — should he dare defy this command, the fault of failing to appear shall be entirely his own.

The envoy returned to his own kingdom, and reported everything he had seen and heard to the king of the Golden Land, who, hearing this challenge, was struck with deep self-reproach, and gathered together all the lesser kings under his own rule, intending to pay homage to this great king, though not yet setting out on the road.

He first sent an envoy to ask the great king: I command thirty-six thousand kings under my own rule — shall I bring them all, or only half? The great king replied: let half remain behind, and bring only half with you.

The king of the Golden Land then arrived together with eighteen thousand lesser kings. Having seen the transformed king and paid him homage, he thought to himself: though this great king's own appearance surpasses mine, his true strength surely does not.

The transformed king then ordered his own minister of arms to hand the king of the Golden Land a bow — yet his hand could not even lift it. The transformed king then took it back, and drew the bow with a single finger, before handing it back to him, commanding him to draw it in turn — yet the king of the Golden Land still could not draw it at all. The transformed king then took the bow back, and merely plucked its own string — and the whole three-thousandfold world shook at once.

He then took up an arrow, drew the bow, and shot it; the moment it left his hand, it divided into five, each arrowhead radiating its own light, and, at the tip of each light, there appeared a lotus flower as large as a chariot wheel, and, upon each and every flower, a wheel-turning king appeared in turn, complete with the seven treasures, radiating light that illuminated the entire three-thousandfold great-thousandfold world-system — every being across the five realms received its own benefit from this light.

The devas, throughout their own realms, seeing this light and hearing the Dharma taught, found their body and mind purified, and gave rise to the resolve for the unsurpassed, true path; some attained the stage of non-retrogression as well. Among human beings, some attained the first, second, or third fruit of the path; some went forth and attained the fruit of arhatship directly; countless others gave rise to the resolve for the unsurpassed, true path, or attained the stage of non-retrogression; and beings of the three lower realms were freed from suffering, liberated, and reborn among humans and devas.

King Mahākapphiṇa, and all the lesser kings of the Golden Land, witnessing this display of spiritual power, had their hearts turned to faith and submission at once, and, far from all dust and defilement, attained the pure Dharma-eye — all eighteen thousand lesser kings, in that same instant, alike.

In but a moment, the Buddha withdrew his own spiritual power, and reverted to his true form, the assembly of monks gathered around him in every direction. The king and people of the Golden Land then asked to go forth themselves; their hair and beard fell away of themselves, and monastic robes appeared upon their bodies, and, contemplating the sublime Dharma, they all attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 7).

In a far distant past kalpa, in this very city of Kuśinagara, a buddha appeared in the world, named Joy-Increasing. He dwelt in the world for countless ages, teaching beings, and, in time, entered final nirvāṇa between the twin śāla trees. After his nirvāṇa, his own remaining teaching endured in the world for countless millions of years; in the final forty years before this teaching was to disappear entirely, there was a monk who upheld the precepts strictly, named Awakened-Virtue, surrounded by a great many disciples and followers, capable of a lion's own roar in expounding the scriptures widely, who forbade the other monks from keeping servants, cattle, or sheep, or any other unlawful possession.

Many monks who had broken the precepts, hearing this teaching, gave rise to malicious hearts, and, taking up knives and staves, moved to attack this Dharma-teacher. At that time, a king named Virtuous, hearing of this, went at once, for the sake of protecting the Dharma, to where the teacher stood, and fought fiercely against these evil, precept-breaking monks, so that the teacher was spared from harm — yet the king himself was wounded all over his own body in the process.

Awakened-Virtue then praised the king, saying: excellent, excellent — you are now truly a protector of the true Dharma; in ages to come, this very body of yours shall become an immeasurable vessel of the Dharma. The king, hearing this teaching, was filled with great joy, and, before long, his own life ended, and he was reborn in the buddha-land of Akṣobhya, as his foremost disciple. The king's own followers, people, and kin, whether they had fought alongside him or merely rejoiced in his own deed, all held their own resolve for enlightenment without regressing, and, when their lives ended, were all likewise reborn in Akṣobhya's own buddha-land.

The monk Awakened-Virtue, when his own life later ended, was also reborn in Akṣobhya's own buddha-land, becoming the second disciple among his own assembly of śrāvakas. Whenever the true Dharma faces its own destruction, it should be upheld and protected in just this way.

That king of that time was myself; and that Dharma-teaching monk was Kāśyapa Buddha (Source: Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 3).

At that time, King Merit-Adorned, having heard a verse from the Buddha and witnessed his own spiritual transformations, felt his own resolve for enlightenment strengthen further, and, bowing at the Buddha's feet, said: I beg only that the World-Honored One, and his own assembly of bodhisattva disciples, accept my invitation for eighty-four thousand years. To the Tathāgata Universal-Light, he vowed to provide clothing, food and drink, bedding, and medicine, attending to his every need. That buddha and his own assembly accepted the invitation, and the king, knowing his invitation had been accepted, departed rejoicing.

The king's own son, Lion's-Advance, together with twenty thousand other princes, then abandoned their own worldly rank and glory, and, within the Buddha's own teaching, shaved their heads and went forth to cultivate the path, applying themselves diligently, delighting in the pursuit of wholesome teaching. Lion's-Advance attained the five supernormal powers, his own resolve firm and unwavering; that buddha empowered him with his own majestic spirit, so that he might constantly reveal the sublime Dharma to beings, performing buddha-work throughout the entire three-thousandfold great-thousandfold world-system, and countless beings held their own resolve for the unsurpassed great vehicle firm and unwavering because of it.

King Merit-Adorned, across those eighty-four thousand years, offered every kind of comfort to the World-Honored One and his own assembly, and, together with all his own ministers, went before and after them as one of the assembly hearing the Dharma taught. Yet he thought to himself: my own sons, having shaved their heads and gone forth to cultivate the path, constantly receive offerings themselves, yet cannot themselves practice giving — nor have I seen them attain any teaching that surpasses ordinary people's own understanding. Might it not be better for them to return home, and, giving away their own wealth in charity, cultivate merit as I myself have planted these very roots of goodness?

At that time, the Tathāgata Universal-Radiant-Light, knowing what was on King Merit-Adorned's own mind, told the bodhisattva Lion's-Advance: good man, reveal now your own unimpeded merit and spiritual power — let this great bodhisattva's own transformation be seen and heard by this whole assembly, and turn back that mistaken thought, that they might attain right view instead.

The bodhisattva Lion's-Advance then entered absorption at once, and manifested signs of this very kind: the great-thousandfold world shook, and, from the open sky above, flowers, incense, silk canopies, banners, music, fine food and drink, necklaces, robes, and every kind of rare treasure rained down in profusion, filling the whole great-thousandfold world entirely. Beings, witnessing what they had never seen before, all rejoiced greatly.

At that moment, from the earth spirits up to the devas of Akaniṣṭha heaven, all proclaimed together: this great bodhisattva may rightly be called Ākāśagarbha ("Womb of Space") — for it is from the very open sky itself that he causes jeweled treasure to rain down, satisfying all beings entirely. The Buddha confirmed this at once.

The king, witnessing this, leapt with joy at what he had never before seen, and, casting off his own arrogance, joined his palms toward the Buddha, and said: how rare this is, World-Honored One — that a bodhisattva's own merit and wisdom could accomplish such a thing as this! World-Honored One, one who gives while still a householder brings only limited benefit; but one who has gone forth, through the power of spiritual attainment, gives without any limit or boundary at all. A householder's own giving never quite matches the recipient's own true need, and, even while giving, still feels reluctance, and suffers distress because of it; but one who has gone forth gives without reluctance, and suffers no such distress at all.

The king then gave up his own throne to his son Auspicious-Intent, and, with a heart of true faith, shaved his own head, and, within the Buddha's own teaching, went forth to cultivate the path, increasing in wholesome practice, applying himself constantly and diligently, and attained the four dhyānas, the four immeasurable states of mind, and the five supernormal powers. King Auspicious-Intent, for his own part, governed by the true Dharma, so that his kingdom held no resentment anywhere within it, applying himself diligently and without fatigue, making offerings to the World-Honored One.

King Merit-Adorned was Krakucchanda Buddha, as he is now; the bodhisattva Lion's-Advance is Ākāśagarbha Bodhisattva, as he is now; and King Auspicious-Intent is Maitreya, as he is now (Source: Sūtra of King Merit-Adorned's Invitation to the Buddha, and His Own Attainment of the Path Through Going Forth).

In Śrāvastī there was a king named Lándá, whose land was rich and fertile, and whose people held sincere faith, ruler and subject, father and son, all following the path together. In time, a later king ascended the throne, and the true Dharma among his own people grew thin, his own governance unjust, wrongfully executing innocent people, and, as this injustice grew, calamity followed in kind: the rains no longer fell in their own season, the five grains failed to ripen, and strange omens arose one after another, until the kingdom fell into ruin, its own people fearing its collapse.

More than five hundred people took up false teachings, and worshipped malevolent spirits, high and low alike imitating one another, as grass bends before the wind; the common people, delighting in disorder, competed in wickedness, the strong preying on the weak, killing one another, seizing others' property without regard for what was right, committing adultery, ruler and subject alike lost in drunken excess, their own confusion deepening day by day. Drought persisted for more than three years; prayers offered again and again brought no rain at all.

The court priests told the king: a great sacrifice must now be made — seven young boys, together with ten white oxen and ten white horses, should be burned as offerings to heaven, and rain will then surely come. The king made preparations at once, and the whole kingdom, high and low, fell into terrified unrest.

The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: the kingdom of Lándá lies in ruin, its people suffering greatly; three hundred million of them are fit to attain liberation through you — go there, and open their minds to the teaching.

Maudgalyāyana went and taught the Dharma, opening their minds to its meaning — yet no one in the kingdom would accept it at first. Maudgalyāyana then transformed himself into the body of a great demon spirit, several dozen fathoms tall, and sat before the city gate, calling out in a thunderous voice for the king and his own ministers to come out. The ruler and his ministers, terrified, feared for their own survival, and, together with his attendant ministers, the king bowed his head and pleaded for his own life.

The spirit told the king: bring me at once any subject who is disloyal, or any son who is unfilial — I wish to devour them. The king made inquiry at once, and was told there were none such. The spirit told the king again: bring me at once any thief, any adulterer, any divisive or foul-mouthed speaker — I wish to devour them. The king made inquiry again, and was told again there were none such. The spirit told the king yet again: bring me at once any drunkard — I wish to devour them. The king made inquiry once more, and was told again there were none such.

Maudgalyāyana then revealed his own true form, and spoke with the spirit himself. The king, seeing Maudgalyāyana, bowed his head, and begged him to explain this great spirit's own purpose. Maudgalyāyana asked the king: what does this spirit truly seek? The king said: it wishes to devour wicked people. Maudgalyāyana asked: are there truly such people within your own kingdom? The king answered: there are none — and begged repeatedly that the spirit be sent away, vowing: I shall, for the rest of my own life, take refuge in this renunciant.

Maudgalyāyana then told the great spirit: this kingdom holds no one of the kind you seek — you may pardon their own transgressions; should any offender arise in the future, you may come and devour them then. The spirit accepted this, and vanished at once.

The king and his own ministers and people all bowed their heads together, expressing their own gratitude, and asked to take refuge. Maudgalyāyana told them: if the king truly wishes to take refuge, he should first take refuge in the Buddha himself. The king asked about the Buddha's own merit, and Maudgalyāyana explained that the Buddha is honored alone throughout the three realms, and that his own teaching has three thousand śrāvaka disciples.

The king said: how fortunate I am, to have heard such an extraordinary thing! — and told Maudgalyāyana: I wish to invite the Buddha, to receive his own honored teaching, and follow it for the rest of my life. Maudgalyāyana told the king: should your own faith truly hold firm in this, the blessing that follows is beyond measure — you need only purify your own heart, and hold the Buddha in mind.

The king, following this instruction, bathed and kept the fast, and, bowing from afar toward the Buddha's own land, said: through my own ignorance, I have wrongly occupied a place above my own people, unable to purify my own heart or guide them rightly, and it is this very fault of mine that has brought the kingdom to ruin — I beg only that the heavenly honored one might let his own light descend, that all my people might obtain blessing without end.

The Buddha and his own monks, while still a hundred li away, traveled ahead through the open sky, lotus flowers of five colors supporting their own feet, the devas escorting them with jeweled canopies and flower-parasols, welcoming them along the way, filling the sky with every kind of fine music.

Witnessing the Buddha's own majestic radiance illuminating heaven and earth, the king and his ministers bowed at his feet, and, at the crossroads of the four directions, laid out broad canopies and curtains, sweeping and cleansing the ground thoroughly. The Buddha sat upon a lion-throne that arose spontaneously, spread with heavenly silk cushions; the king served food and drink with his own hands, and personally brought water for washing.

Once the dedication of blessing was complete, the Buddha taught the essentials of the four noble truths — suffering, emptiness, impermanence, and non-self — and the king, overjoyed, asked to receive the five precepts; his own entangling defilements dissolved, and he attained the fruit of stream-entry. The five hundred non-Buddhist ascetics whom the king had once served then asked to become monks themselves, and the Buddha granted this at once; laying his own hand upon their heads, their hair fell away and monastic robes appeared upon their bodies, and, within seven days, all of them attained arhatship. The assembled people attained the fruit of stream-entry, or received the five precepts and diligently practiced the ten wholesome actions, taking refuge in the Three Jewels, keeping the six monthly fast-days and the three annual fasts, each guiding the others in turn, and making this their own lasting practice.

Ānanda asked the Buddha: what past karmic connection did this king and his people share with Maudgalyāyana? The Buddha said: long ago, in the age of Vipaśyin Buddha, Maudgalyāyana was a lay follower, dwelling in long-standing poverty, yet upholding the precepts faithfully, his own mind never once faltering. Gathering flowers in the mountains, he came upon a Xūwén tree, and, just as he was about to climb it to gather flowers, he did not notice a beehive hidden ahead of him; several thousand bees, startled, scattered and chased after him in swarm. He thought to himself, at that very moment: should I attain the path myself, I shall deliver you as well. Those who attained the path today were, every one, those very bees of that time (Source: Sūtra of King Lándá).

Long ago there were five kings, whose kingdoms lay near one another, who were close friends and visited each other regularly. The greatest among them was named Universal-Peace, who practiced the bodhisattva path; the other four lesser kings constantly practiced wrong conduct instead. The great king, moved by compassion for them, invited them to his own hall, and they took their ease together for seven full days and nights.

Once the seven days were complete, the lesser kings told the great king: there is much business awaiting us in our own kingdoms — we ask leave to return home. The great king saw them off, and, on the road, asked each of them in turn to name their own greatest pleasure.

One king answered: in the third month of spring, when the trees bloom in glory, to wander freely through the open meadows. Another answered: I wish always to be king — my own saddled horse, fine robes, officials and subjects surrounding me on every side, resplendent and radiant, bells and drums sounding as I come and go, the people along the road turning their heads to look. Another said: I wish for my own wife and children to be of matchless beauty, that we might take our pleasure together, our hearts fully content. Another said: I wish my own parents to live forever, my friends, brothers, wife and children all gathered around me, fine clothes and delicious food to please my own body and mouth, plain lute and attendant women to entertain us together.

They then all asked the great king what pleasure he himself desired most. The great king answered: I take pleasure in neither being born nor dying, in neither suffering nor affliction, in neither hunger nor thirst, in neither cold nor heat — in being entirely free, whether present or gone.

The four kings said together: such a pleasure as this must have some wise teacher behind it. The great king answered: my own teacher is called the Buddha, and dwells nearby, at the Jetavana monastery. The kings, delighted, went together to the World-Honored One.

The great king said to the Buddha: we, having attained human birth, remain ignorant and dull, deeply attached to the pleasures of this world, and understand nothing of transgression or merit — I beg the Buddha to teach these disciples of his own the truth of suffering.

The Buddha said: listen well, all of you, and I shall teach it to you. Human life in this world is beset by suffering on every side; let me briefly explain the eight sufferings.

The first is the suffering of birth. When a person dies, not knowing which realm their own spirit will go to, and not yet having found a place of rebirth, they take on the intermediate-state body entirely; within twenty-one days, their father and mother unite, and they come to be conceived. In the first week, the embryo is like thin curds; in the second week, like thick curds; in the third week, like congealed butter; in the fourth week, like a small piece of flesh. Once the placenta is fully formed, a subtle wind enters the belly, and blows through the body, opening up the six sense faculties. Dwelling within the mother's own womb, below the raw organs and above the digestive organs, whenever the mother eats even a single mouthful of hot food, it pours over the child's own body as though scalding it in boiling water; whenever the mother drinks a single cup of cold water, it is as though icy cold were cutting into its own flesh. When the mother is full, the child's own body is crushed and compressed, its pain beyond words; when the mother is hungry, the child hangs as though upside down within her own belly, suffering beyond measure.

When the tenth month is complete, and birth is imminent, the head turns toward the birth canal, a pain as severe as being crushed between two mountains, and the child falls out onto the straw below; its own body, so delicate and soft, feels the straw's own touch like the edge of a blade, and it suddenly cries out in its first great wail. Is this not suffering? — All present said: it is indeed suffering.

The second is the suffering of old age. Raised by one's own parents to full maturity, one eats to excess when hungry and to excess when full, without any true moderation, until, gradually reaching old age, the hair turns white and the teeth fall out, the eyes grow dim and the ears dull; vigor departs and decline arrives, the skin sags and the face wrinkles, every joint aches, and even walking becomes a great hardship; sitting or rising, one groans, grief and suffering never far away; the very spirit of consciousness dims and fades, and death arrives in its own turn, one's remaining life growing ever shorter, speaking through tears, needing another's help simply to sit or stand. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

The third is the suffering of sickness. The body is formed from the union of earth, water, fire, and wind; should even one of these four elements fall out of balance, a hundred and one illnesses arise; should all four fall out of balance together, four hundred and four illnesses arise at once. When earth falls out of balance, the whole body aches; when water falls out of balance, the whole body swells; when fire falls out of balance, the whole body burns with fever; when wind falls out of balance, the whole body stiffens, every joint aching as though beaten with a rod. As the four elements advance and retreat within, the hands and feet fail to obey, one's own strength drains away entirely, and one needs another's help simply to sit or stand; the mouth grows parched, the lips cracked, the sinews snapped, the nose split; the eyes can no longer see form, the ears can no longer hear sound; impure discharge flows forth, and one lies in it upon one's own bed, the heart filled with suffering, every word tinged with grief. One's own closest kin attend day and night without rest, yet even the finest food, once it enters the mouth, tastes only bitter. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

The fourth is the suffering of death. When a person dies, four hundred and four illnesses strike all at once; the four elements are about to scatter, and the spirit grows unsettled. As death approaches, it is as though blades and wind were tearing the body apart, no place left unpained; a cold sweat pours forth, and the two hands grope at empty air. Family within the household and without gather at the dying one's own side, grieving and weeping, a pain that pierces to the very marrow, beyond one's own endurance. The wind departs, the breath scatters, the fire of life goes out, the body grows cold, and the spirit departs. The body then lies stiff and straight, aware of nothing further; within ten days, the flesh rots and blood flows, the body swelling and decaying, its stench unbearable to approach, and it is cast aside in the open wilderness, where birds devour its flesh entirely, leaving only dry bone, the skull scattered apart from the rest. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

The fifth is the suffering of separation from those one loves. Family within the household and without, brothers, wife and children, cherishing one another — and then, in a single morning, all is broken and lost. Taken captive, each scattered apart from the others, father to the east, son to the west, mother to the south, daughter to the north, no longer together in even a single place; made servants to others, each grieves alone, all contact between them severed, in a darkness so deep there is no hope of ever seeing one another again. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

The sixth is the suffering of not obtaining what one seeks. A household spends its own wealth seeking official rank, hoping for wealth and honor, never satisfied with the pursuit; should such a person by chance obtain a post at some distant border posting, before long, driven by greed, they seize the people's own property there, and are reported for it; in a single day, disaster strikes, and they are carried off in a prisoner's cart, their own grief and suffering beyond measure, not knowing what day will bring life or death. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

The seventh is the suffering of meeting what one hates. People of this world, shallow in custom, dwell amid craving and desire, quarreling over trivial matters, until they come to kill one another, and a great enmity is formed; each flees and hides from the other, with nowhere truly safe to go, each sharpening blade and arrow, gripping bow and staff. Meeting by chance upon a narrow path, bows drawn and arrows nocked, blades turned against one another, neither knowing who shall prevail — in that very moment, terror beyond measure grips them both. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

The eighth is the suffering of grief, sorrow, and affliction. Living in this world, the longest-lived reach a hundred years, while the short-lived are harmed even within the womb; and even one who obtains a full hundred years loses half of it to the night alone, leaving only fifty remaining years — spent drunk, or ill, unaware even of living as a true human being; foolish in childhood, not yet understanding proper conduct through the first fifteen years; and, past eighty, grown dull and witless in old age, deaf and blind, with no rule of conduct left at all. When the world grows disordered, drought, fire, and heavy frost ruin the crops in the fields; households within and without suffer every kind of illness; one's own livelihood is suddenly lost, official taxes and levies imprison one in jail with no known date of release; brothers and children, traveling far, fail to return; one's own household grows poor and cold, lacking food and clothing; neighboring villages and shrines fall into disrepair; a family member dies with no means for a proper burial; when spring comes for planting, there is no plow-ox to be had; and even gatherings meant for festival joy turn instead to shared grief. Is this not suffering? They answered: it is indeed suffering.

At that time, the five kings, and the thousands upon thousands of ministers gathered in that assembly, hearing this truth of suffering taught, had their own minds opened in understanding, and attained the fruit of stream-entry at once; looking now upon their own palace halls as though gazing upon a foul latrine, with nothing left in them to delight in, they gave up their own thrones to their younger brothers, and went forth to cultivate the path themselves, cultivating merit tirelessly, day after day (Source: Sūtra of the Five Kings).

In the country of Duōmèi, there was a brahmin king who gave up his own royal stipend and devoted himself largely to non-Buddhist practices. One day, a wholesome resolve arose in him of itself, and he wished to give in great charity, following the brahmanical way: he piled treasure high as a mountain, and let anyone who came to beg take away as much as they could hold in a single grasp of the hand — and yet, day after day, the pile never diminished.

The Buddha, knowing that this king's own past merit had ripened him for deliverance, transformed himself into a brahmin ascetic, and came to that kingdom. The king came out to meet him, greeting him with proper courtesy, and asked: what do you seek? Do not hesitate to ask. The ascetic answered: I have come from afar, wishing to beg treasure to build myself a dwelling. The king said: excellent — take as much as a single grasp of your own hand can hold.

The ascetic took a single handful, walked seven paces, and then set it back down in its original place. The king asked: why do you not take it? The ascetic answered: this would be barely enough to build myself a hut — yet I shall also need to take a wife, and this alone would not suffice for that as well; it is for this reason that I do not take it.

The king said: take three handfuls instead. The ascetic did so, walked seven paces, and again set it back down. The king asked him: why do you do this again? He answered: this would suffice to take a wife, but I would still have no land, no servants, no oxen or horses — reckoning it all, it is still not enough; it is for this reason that I set aside the thought.

The king said: take seven handfuls, then. The ascetic did so, walked seven paces, and again set it back down. The king asked: what reason is there this time? The ascetic answered: should I then have sons and daughters, I would need to provide for their own marriages, and for every fortune and misfortune besides — reckoning it all, it is still not enough; it is for this reason that I do not take it.

The king said: then take the entire pile of treasure, all of it, and keep it for yourself. The ascetic accepted it, and turned to leave — yet the king, greatly puzzled by this, asked him again what his own true reason was.

The ascetic answered: I came originally begging in order to sustain my own livelihood — yet, reflecting truly on this, a person's own life in this world amounts to so little; the ten thousand things are impermanent, and cannot be relied upon even from morning to evening. As one cause leads to another, worry and suffering only deepen day by day, and a pile of treasure as high as a mountain brings no true benefit to oneself at all — coveting and scheming only brings needless hardship upon oneself. Better, then, to set aside such thoughts entirely, and seek instead the unconditioned path. It is for this reason that I do not take it.

The king's own mind opened in understanding at this, and he said: I wish to follow this clear teaching. At this, the ascetic revealed the Buddha's own radiant form, rising into the open sky, and spoke this verse for him:

"Though one gather rare treasure into a pile / towering high as the very sky itself, / and fill the whole world with it besides — / this is not worth glimpsing the essence of the path. / What is unwholesome takes on the very likeness of the wholesome; / what is craved appears as though free of craving; / what is truly suffering takes on the likeness of pleasure — / and the deluded man never wearies of it."

The king, seeing the Buddha's own light illuminate heaven and earth far and wide, and hearing this verse, leapt up with joy; he and his ministers at once received the five precepts, and attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Sūtra of Illustrative Parables [Chūyào jīng], fascicle 16).

There was a king named Módá, who, raising an army for a military campaign, conscripted several hundred thousand of his own people. At that time, a monk who had attained arhatship entered the kingdom to beg for alms, and was seized along with the conscripts and taken to the royal palace, where the king set him to tending the royal horses.

After seven days of such hard labor, the king came himself to observe him. The monk, seeing the king, rose lightly into the air, and hovered there in the open sky, displaying his own majestic spiritual power. The king, struck with terror, bowed his head and repented: I have truly been foolish, unable to distinguish the true from the false — and made inquiry, within the court and without, as to who had set this holy man to such a task, intending to punish whoever was responsible, even to the point of execution.

The monk told the king: this is the fault of neither the king nor his people. Long ago, in a past life of my own, while practicing the path, I regularly made offerings to my own teacher. I once prepared a drink for him, and my teacher told me: wash your hands first, and only then shall you drink. My own foolish mind thought to itself: my teacher, too, has never tended the royal horses himself — why, then, does he insist I wash my hands beforehand? My teacher then told me: this thought of yours seems light now, but consider how heavy it shall prove later.

Hearing this, I was filled with distress at what I had done; my teacher, knowing my own state of mind, thought to himself: I am soon to enter nirvāṇa — why should I trouble this person further? And so, that very night, in the third watch, my teacher entered final nirvāṇa. Since that time, long ago, across many turns of birth and death, I have now, for this very reason, received the karmic consequence of that past fault: seven days tending horses. For good and evil conduct alike bring their own reward and misfortune in turn, following one as closely as a shadow follows its own form.

The king, hearing the monk explain this matter of transgression and merit, felt his own mind open in understanding, and, overjoyed, asked to take refuge with this holy man. The monk told him: you should take refuge in the Buddha himself, for the Buddha is teacher to the three realms.

The king and his people then followed the monk to the Buddha, bowed before him, and received the five precepts, becoming lay followers. The Buddha then revealed his own auspicious marks and majestic spiritual power to the king and his people, illuminating heaven and earth, and taught them the truth of impermanence, suffering, and emptiness. The king, at that time, attained the fruit of stream-entry, and the people of his kingdom all received the five precepts and the ten wholesome actions, taking refuge in the Three Jewels, and keeping the monthly fast as their own lasting practice (Source: Sūtra of King Módá).

There was a king named Qiántuó, who served a brahmin teacher and dwelt in the mountains, where he had planted a great many fruit trees. A woodcutter once damaged some of these trees; the brahmin brought word of this to the king, describing the man's own conduct as outrageous, and asked that he be put to death for damaging the fruit trees. The king, revering the brahmin, had the man executed at once.

Not long after this, an ox ate a portion of a man's own rice crop; its owner, in anger, beat the ox and broke one of its horns, blood streaming down its face, the pain unbearable. The ox went directly to the king, and said: I have indeed done wrong, eating a small portion of this man's rice — yet he has beaten me and broken my own horn for it.

The king, who understood the speech of birds and beasts, told the ox: I shall have this man put to death for you. The ox said: even should you kill this man, it would not stop my own pain — only command him, from now on, not to harm animals in this way.

The king, moved by this, reflected: I have served this brahmin, and, over the mere matter of fruit trees, had a man put to death — I am not even the equal of this very ox. He then summoned the brahmin, and asked him: what true blessing comes from serving this path of yours? The brahmin answered: it can ward off calamity, and bring blessing, wealth, honor, and long life. The king asked further: can it free one from birth and death? He answered: it cannot free one from birth and death at all.

The king then went to the Buddha, threw his whole body to the ground in homage, and said: I have heard that the Buddha's own path is supreme, teaching and transforming the whole world, delivering beings beyond count — I wish to receive your own teaching, and reform myself by it.

The Buddha then conferred upon the king the five precepts and the ten wholesome actions, and taught him that nothing at all, among all beings of heaven, earth, and humankind, is born without also being subject to death; that giving in charity and upholding the precepts bring blessing in this very life; and that one who practices patience, diligence, and wisdom of mind attains merit beyond measure, and, reborn in heaven afterward, might even become a wheel-turning king, or attain the unconditioned path of liberation from the world.

The Buddha revealed his own auspicious marks and majestic spiritual radiance, illuminating all; the king, overjoyed, his own mind opened in understanding, attained the fruit of stream-entry. The ox, seven days later, reached the end of its own life, and was reborn in heaven (Source: Sūtra of the King of Qiántuó).

There was a king of the country of Fūyán, named Universal-Attainment, who personally served the Buddha's own teaching, never once acting unjustly, always holding compassion for others — yet the ignorant people of his own kingdom knew nothing of the Three Jewels. Whenever a fast day came, the king would ascend a high place to survey his own land, and, upon returning, would always bow his head to the ground in homage.

The ministers and people of his own kingdom found this strange, and said among themselves: the king holds the highest station among all his own people, revered and honored far and wide — what could possibly move him to bow his own head to the ground like this, seemingly demeaning his own royal dignity? His ministers wished to remonstrate with him over this, but did not dare to.

Once, going out from the palace with several thousand officials and subjects, they had not gone far when they saw a lone renunciant on the road. The king descended from his own carriage, set aside his own canopy, and stood there; his whole retinue then bowed before the renunciant as well, before following the king back — and the meal they had prepared for the outing went unserved.

His ministers then remonstrated with him: great king, in your own supreme dignity, why should you bow your head to the ground on the open road before a mere beggar-monk such as this? Nothing in this world is more honored than one's own head — and, all the more so, for a king, whose own standing is unlike anyone else's.

The king then commanded his own ministers: seek out the heads of dead people, together with the heads of the six domestic animals. His ministers searched everywhere, and, after some days, obtained them. The king said: sell them in the marketplace. His ministers did so; the heads of oxen, horses, pigs, and sheep all sold readily — but no human head found a buyer at all.

The king said: sell them at whatever price, high or low, and, should they still not sell, offer them to beggars instead. And so it continued, day after day, yet still no human head would sell, and no beggar would even take one for free — until, at last, the heads all began to swell and rot with decay.

The king then grew greatly angered, and told his ministers: you claimed that a human head is the most honored thing of all, not to be demeaned — why, then, will no human head sell, nor even find a beggar willing to take it? He then ordered his own carriage prepared, and went out into the open wilderness, saying there was something he wished to ask.

His ministers, trembling, went with him out of the city. The king told them: do you recall, in my own late father's time, a small child who used to carry his royal canopy? His ministers answered: indeed, we recall him. The king asked: where is this child now? They answered: he has been dead seventeen years now.

The king asked: what kind of person was this child, good or otherwise? They answered: we ourselves often saw him serve the former king faithfully, keeping the fast with reverent solemnity, sincere and true, holding fast to his own conduct, never once speaking anything improper.

The king told his ministers: were you to see the very clothing this child once wore, would you still recognize it? His ministers answered: though it has been so long, we would still recognize it. The king had the dead child's own clothing brought out, and asked: is this it? His ministers answered: it is. The king asked: and were you now to see this child's own body again, would you recognize him? His ministers, after a long silence, answered: we fear our own understanding is too clouded to be certain, should we suddenly behold him now.

At that moment, the very renunciant they had seen earlier arrived. The king, overjoyed, said: I have also had a head sold for this renunciant, and offered to beggars who would not take it — I now wish to reveal the whole truth of this matter; how fortunate that we meet again — I ask you to explain it to them.

The renunciant then told the ministers: the king was, in truth, that very child who once carried the former king's own canopy, who constantly attended him, kept the fast, and practiced the true Dharma, his own mind pure, committing no wrong at all. After that life passed, he was reborn as a prince, and it is entirely because of his own past practice of the fast that he now holds such honored station.

The ministers, great and small alike, said together: how fortunate we are, to have met and beheld this renunciant — we beg, in our own foolishness, to become his disciples. The renunciant told the assembled ministers and people: I myself have a great teacher, from whom you should seek this teaching directly. The ministers answered: we wish, for the rest of our own lives, to receive his teaching just once.

The renunciant said: my own teacher is called the Buddha. His body can fly through the air, light radiates from his own crown, and he can divide and scatter his own body in countless transformations; he walks alone, unequaled throughout the three realms, and his own disciples, pure and clean, are all monks — those he teaches are never delivered in vain.

The ministers asked the renunciant at once: might we see the Buddha ourselves? How far away is he? The renunciant answered: very well — I shall inform the World-Honored One myself — he is some six thousand li from here. The renunciant then flew at once to Śrāvastī, and reported the whole matter fully to the Buddha, who said: tomorrow, I shall arrive in the country of Fūyán.

As the Buddha drew near, he displayed his own majestic spiritual power everywhere; the king and his ministers, bearing flowers and incense, went out from the city to welcome him, and, beholding the Buddha's own divine majesty, overcome with mingled joy and awe, threw their whole bodies to the ground in homage, and said to the Buddha: we have troubled the World-Honored One, and his own assembly of monks, to travel so far to this land.

The king made every provision with his whole heart, personally serving food and drink and bringing water for washing. Once the dedication of blessing was complete, the Buddha smiled, and light of five colors shone from his own mouth. Ānanda said: the Buddha never smiles without cause. The Buddha answered: long ago, in the age of the Buddha Móhēwén, this king was the son of a great family, whose own father made offerings to the Three Jewels, and once commanded his son to carry incense to the ceremony. There was, at that time, a certain attendant who, in his own heart, held this task in contempt, and refused to carry the incense himself.

Transgression and merit answer one another exactly as an echo answers a sound — and it is for this very reason that he was, for a time, made to serve in menial labor; yet, because he continued in his own devoted practice without ever abandoning it, he has now attained kingship. Should I myself attain the path, I shall deliver this very person as well.

Understanding the whole matter, from beginning to end, the king at once attained the fruit of stream-entry, and the people of his own kingdom all received the five precepts, and practiced the ten wholesome actions (Source: Sūtra of King Universal-Attainment).