Prasenajit and Bimbisāra

Long ago, King Bimbisāra had a great minister who, having committed some offense, was exiled to a southern mountain, a thousand li from the capital, a place where no one had ever succeeded in growing the five grains before. Once the minister arrived there, however, springs of water began to flow freely, and the five grains grew abundant; people from every direction, suffering hunger and cold, came to settle there, and within a few years, three or four thousand households had gathered, each given land to farm and sustain their own lives.

The elders and respected leaders among them then discussed together that their community had no ruler, being, as it were, a body without a head, and went together to the minister, and installed him as their own king. The minister told these elders: if you make me king, then it must be according to the proper law of kings everywhere — ministers of both civil and military rank, tribute paid from below to above, and the taking of women, opening of palaces, and levying of taxes on grain and cloth, all according to the customary law of such kingdoms. The elders answered: so be it — we shall follow the king's own law in every respect. And so he was installed as king, and arranged his own ministers, levied his people for civil and military service, and had them build city walls, dwellings, palaces, and towers.

The people, suffering under this harsh burden, could bear it no longer, and all began to plot together against the king. Certain treacherous ministers led the king out on a hunting trip, and, some thirty or forty li from the city, in the open wilderness, seized him, intending to kill him. The king asked his own attendants: for what reason do you kill me? They answered together: the people once loved you for your own prosperous, gracious rule — but now, worn down by hardship, they think only of rebellion, destroying their own households to seize your kingdom instead.

The king told them: this is entirely your own doing, not anything I originally caused — should you wrongly kill me for it, the spirits themselves shall know of it. Let me only make one final vow before I die, that I might die without regret. He then made this vow: I was the one who first cleared this wild land and brought forth its own soil to nourish my people; all who came here found life and boundless prosperity because of me. It was you yourselves who raised me up as king, following the same custom as every other kingdom — and now, instead, you kill me for it. I have truly done no evil to these people at all. Should I die now, I vow to become a rākṣasa, and return into this very body of mine, to avenge this very wrong.

They then strangled him, and abandoned his corpse, and departed. Three days later, the king's own spirit returned into his body, and, naming himself Āluóbō, rose up and entered the palace, killing the new king, together with the women of the inner palace and the treacherous ministers around him, intending to kill every person there.

The three elders of the kingdom then bound themselves with straw rope, and came before the rākṣasa to confess: this was the doing of treacherous ministers alone — the common people could never have known of such a scheme. We beg your forgiveness, and ask that you return to governing the kingdom.

He answered: I am now a rākṣasa, and, in dealing with human beings, must have human flesh as my own food and drink. The rākṣasa's own nature was violent and impulsive, giving no thought to consequence. The three elders said: since the kingdom is already yours to command, let it be as you say — whatever food you require, we shall provide it in due order.

The elders of the kingdom then went out and proclaimed to the people: from this day forward, in strict order, each household shall in turn offer up one newborn child, to be used as food. In this way, the rākṣasa king consumed the children of three or four thousand households.

There was, however, a single household among them who were disciples of the Buddha, who, keeping to their own home, applied themselves diligently and upheld the Buddha's five precepts faithfully. This worthy family, young and old alike, grieved and wept in anguish, and, turning from afar toward Vulture Peak, bowed in homage to the Buddha, confessing their own faults and reproaching themselves.

The Buddha, with his own spiritual eye, saw their suffering, and said to himself: because of this very child, I shall deliver countless beings. He then flew alone to the rākṣasa's own gate, manifesting a transformed, radiant form that illuminated the whole palace within. The rākṣasa, seeing this light, suspected some extraordinary being, and came out to see — and, at the sight of the Buddha, gave rise to a murderous intent, rushing forward to swallow the Buddha's own light and pierce his eyes, hurling mountains and spewing fire, all of which turned to mere dust; only after a long, exhausting struggle did the rākṣasa at last submit.

He invited the Buddha to sit, and bowed his head in homage; the Buddha taught him the Dharma, and, listening with single-minded attention, the rākṣasa received the five precepts at once, becoming a lay follower.

The local officer, hurrying to prepare the day's own offering, had seized a child and was bringing it back; the family wailed and followed along the road, and countless onlookers grieved for them. The officer, holding the child, offered it as food before the rākṣasa — who took the child up in his own hands, and, kneeling at length before the Buddha, said: the people of this kingdom have, in turn, offered me their own children as food — but now, having received the Buddha's own five precepts, I shall no longer eat human flesh at all. I ask instead that this child be given in offering to the Buddha himself, to serve as his own attendant.

The Buddha accepted this, taught the Dharma, and pronounced a dedication of blessing; the rākṣasa, overjoyed, attained the fruit of stream-entry. The Buddha then placed the child in his own bowl, carried it out through the palace gate, and returned it to its own parents, telling them: raise this child well, and grieve no more.

All who witnessed this were struck with astonishment: what spirit is this, and what merit does this child possess, that he alone should be rescued from the very rākṣasa who had devoured so many others, and restored to his own parents? The Buddha then spoke this verse:

"The virtue of the precepts can truly be relied upon; / its blessed reward constantly follows oneself. / One who sees the Dharma grows in true stature, / and, in the end, stays far from the three lower realms. / Careful observance of the precepts removes suffering and fear; / its blessed reward is honored throughout the three realms. / Ghosts, dragons, and every malicious poison / cannot harm one who truly holds the precepts."

All who saw the Buddha's own radiant form became his disciples at once; hearing this verse, they rejoiced, and all attained a glimpse of the path (Source: Dharmapada with Illustrative Tales, fascicle 5).

In Śrāvastī there were two merchants. One of them thought to himself: the Buddha's own body, sixteen feet tall, his complexion like purple gold, a fleshy protuberance atop his own crown, radiance like the sun at his own back — how majestic, beyond words! The Buddha is like a sovereign king, and the śramaṇas are like his loyal ministers; the Buddha proclaims the clear Dharma, and the śramaṇas recite and proclaim it in turn — truly, this is a wise king's own governance. He recognized the Buddha as worthy of reverence.

The Buddha, knowing this man's own thought, looked at him closely, and the man's own heart was filled with joy, as though he had found a treasure.

The other merchant thought to himself: the Buddha is like an ox, and his disciples like a cart — that ox drags its cart east, west, south, and north wherever it is led, and the Buddha is just the same. The Buddha, knowing this man harbored a contemptuous thought, and that he would surely meet with misfortune because of it, felt sorrowful compassion for him.

That man's own heart held only malice, and the two of them then departed together. Traveling thirty li, they came to a wayside inn, and stopped for the night, buying wine and drinking together, discussing various matters, some of which grew into a heated dispute.

The one who had held a wholesome thought was protected that night by a good spirit sent by the Four Heavenly Kings; the one who had held a malicious thought was made, by the spirits of Mount Tai, to feel the wine enter his own belly as though his body were on fire. He staggered out of the inn, lay exposed on the ground, rolled about, and fell into a wheel-rut in the road. At dawn, a merchant caravan of five hundred carts passed by, and ran him over.

His own companion, seeing this, thought: my own fortune has surely turned ill now — should I return to my own country carrying his goods, I would be suspected of theft, branded unjust. And so, abandoning both his own wealth and his companion's remains, he set off, traveling on and on, until he had gone tens of thousands of li from Śrāvastī.

He came to a certain kingdom whose own king had died without an heir. A prophetic text there declared: a person of humble origin from the central lands shall become king of this land. The assembled ministers discussed this, saying: a kingdom without a ruler is like a body without a head — it cannot long endure. It was the kingdom's own custom that the royal horse always bowed before the rightful king; whoever the horse knelt before would be recognized as the true ruler.

All agreed this was an excellent plan, and prepared a grand procession, placing the royal seal and ribbon upon a carriage; people and horses filled the road, and every onlooker was moved to tears. The merchant, too, came out to watch. The kingdom's own royal astrologer declared: that man there is crowned with a yellow cloud — this is the very sign of a true king.

The sacred horse then walked directly to him, knelt, and licked his feet. The ministers, delighted, bathed him in fragrant water, and installed him as ruler of the land, all proclaiming themselves his own subjects. The man said: I was, in truth, only a merchant — I hold no true virtue toward the people, and am unfit for this heavenly station. The ministers answered: heaven itself has granted this to the virtuous, and the sacred horse has already knelt before you — there can be no doubt of it.

And so he took up residence in the royal palace, and attended to the affairs of state. Reflecting deeply on this, he thought to himself: I possess no particular goodness of my own — by what cause, then, have I obtained this? It must surely be the Buddha's own grace that has brought this about.

Each morning, seated upon his own throne, he praised the Buddha's unsurpassed sagehood, and, together with all the officials of his own realm, bowed toward Śrāvastī, saying: I, once a lowly man, received the World-Honored One's own grace, and have thereby become a ruler of men — yet this land has, for generations, known nothing of the Buddha, and even its own popular writings make no record of him. I wish, through his own great illumination, to open the deafness and blindness of this land's own people. I ask, tomorrow, that the assembly of true and worthy ones might turn their attention to this land, and remain here for a full three months.

The Buddha told Ānanda, and commanded the monks: tomorrow, this king's own invitation shall be answered — let each of you, in your own transformed and manifest form, reveal the Buddha's own honored spiritual power, that the people of that kingdom might all witness it together.

The devas, hearing of the Buddha's own intention to teach that land, accompanied him in procession, performing music and singing his own praises; jeweled canopies, banners, and flowers fell in profusion, their light dazzling to behold. The Buddha and the assembly of true and worthy ones all took their seats in the main hall.

The king personally served them, and, this done, sat upon a low seat before the Buddha. The Buddha taught the Dharma at length. The king said: I was originally a man of humble station, my own past deeds holding no particular virtue at all — by what cause have I obtained this station?

The Buddha told the king: long ago, that same king of Śrāvastī once offered food to the Buddha, and, in his own heart, thought: the Buddha's own mind is like a sovereign king, and the śramaṇas are like his ministers. He planted this very seed then, and now reaps its fruit. That other man, who thought the Buddha was like an ox and his disciples like a cart, planted with his own hands the very seed of the cart that then ran him over — and he is now in Mount Tai's own hell, crushed beneath a chariot of fire, reaping his own fruit in turn. Neither outcome was brought about by the king's own valor, nor by that other man's own misfortune alone. Good deeds bring blessing that follows, as evil deeds bring calamity that pursues; good and evil answer their own cause exactly as an echo answers a sound — this is granted by no deva, dragon, or spirit, nor caused by any ancestor at all. It is the mind that creates it, and the body and speech that bring it to completion.

The Buddha then spoke this verse:

"The mind is the root of all things; / the mind is master, the mind commands. / When the mind within holds an evil thought, / speech and action follow it at once, / and transgression and suffering pursue of themselves, / as a cart follows its own wheel-rut. / The mind is the root of all things; / the mind is master, the mind commands. / When the mind within holds a wholesome thought, / speech and action follow it at once, / and blessing and joy pursue of themselves, / as a shadow follows its own form."

The World-Honored One further told the king: among all evil transgressions, five are the very gravest. Being unfilial, being disloyal, killing one's own parents, killing one's own sovereign, and bringing ruin upon one's own household and disorder to one's own kingdom — this is the first grave transgression. To harm an arhat, who has attained emptiness, freedom from craving, and the formless absorption, whose own mind is equal to the Buddha's own in laboring to save all beings, out of mere foolishness — this is the second grave transgression. The Buddha, whose every transgression is already exhausted, whose own glorious merit is fully complete, whose marks and ten powers guide all beings, whose loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and protective care surpass even a loving mother's own heart — to slander him out of foolish malice is the third grave transgression. Pure and clean śramaṇas, of tranquil resolve and lofty conduct, who hold the scriptures' own teaching in their hearts to assist the Buddha in guiding the foolish — every buddha's own succession, and the deliverance of all beings, depends entirely upon the Saṅgha — to bring about discord among them through slander and scheming, so that the true Dharma is thereby destroyed, causing the people to run wild in confusion, and the three lower realms to flourish because of it, troubling the assembly of monks — this is the fourth grave transgression. The Buddha's own honored shrines, treasures, and lands, offered up by beings with a sincere heart to the Three Jewels — to destroy or steal from these out of foolishness is the fifth grave transgression.

Whoever commits these five has no transgression left ungoverned by consequence — it is called killing oneself, destroying one's own lineage, and casting oneself into the very fire of Mount Tai. The weight of these five transgressions exceeds even Mount Sumeru itself — take great care never to commit them.

Once the Buddha had finished teaching this sūtra, the king and his ministers all attained the fruit of stream-entry, and received the five precepts, becoming lay followers of pure faith. Some among the people of the kingdom went forth as monks; those who kept the precepts as lay followers of pure faith then made the five precepts and the ten wholesome actions the very governance of the state, and the devas protected and blessed the kingdom, which thereafter flourished (Source: Sūtra of a Hundred Forms of Affection).

King Prasenajit's own past cultivation of merit produced its blessing in due response: in his own rear garden, a sugarcane tree grew spontaneously, flowing with sweet juice day and night without ceasing, and a single stalk of unhusked rice grew as well, bearing hundreds of grain-heads that never diminished no matter how much was taken.

The king, receiving this blessing, ate of it without restraint, until his own body grew heavy and swollen, his breath labored and painful, unable even to turn over in his own bed. He went to the Buddha, and, bowing low in respect, sat to one side. The Buddha then spoke this verse:

"If a person can hold their own mind single-pointed, / knowing when they have had enough of food, / taking only what sustains the body's own life, / they nourish their own years and uphold virtue's own way."

The king, overjoyed, rose at once from his own seat, took leave of the Buddha, and returned to his own palace, commanding that whoever served food before him should first recite this very verse, and made this his own lasting custom. The king thereafter gradually reduced his own food, his body grew lighter, and he moved about freely, without further trouble (Source: Sūtra of Illustrative Parables [Chūyào jīng], fascicle 17).

King Prasenajit, sleeping one night, had ten kinds of dreams. First, he saw a small tree bearing flowers. Second, he saw a small tree bearing fruit. Third, he saw a cow seeking milk from its own calf. Fourth, he saw a man cutting a rope to obtain sheep, which then followed and fed on him in turn. Fifth, he saw ten cauldrons stacked one atop the other, the topmost overflowing and pouring down into the very lowest. Sixth, he saw a single horse's body with two heads, each feeding on wheat. Seventh, he saw blood flowing as though forming a river channel. Eighth, he saw clear water, pure at its own edges yet muddied at its center. Ninth, he saw a dog urinating inside a golden vessel. Tenth, he saw four oxen come from the four directions, butt against one another, and then each scatter and return whence they came.

The king, seeing these dreams, was struck with terror, the hair of his own body standing on end; waking from sleep, he thought: am I fated to die, and lose this very throne? He went at once to ask the Buddha.

The Buddha said: great king, harbor no fear — it is not through these dreams that you shall lose your own throne.

The dream of a small tree bearing flowers: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; at that time, people shall no longer be filial to their own parents, nor serve śramaṇas and brahmins, and yet shall still receive offerings — quite unlike now, when only the filial, who serve their parents and support śramaṇas, receive such support.

The small tree bearing fruit: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; at that time, a woman shall return home carrying a child not long after her own marriage, feeling no shame in it at all.

The cow seeking milk from its own calf: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; a mother, guarding her own door as a prostitute, shall carry on illicit affairs to sustain her own livelihood.

The man cutting a rope to obtain sheep that then feed on him: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; people shall give their own wealth and treasure to outsiders in exchange for illicit relations.

The ten stacked cauldrons, the topmost overflowing down into the lowest: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, in accordance with false teachings; a child shall say to his own parents, leave this household at once, and go to the mountains and wilds — I wish to live here in this village myself.

The single horse's body with two heads, each feeding on wheat: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; some shall rely on the king's own authority to plunder brahmins and elders, while others shall rely on brahmins and elders to plunder the royal treasury in turn.

The dream of blood flowing like a river channel: in an age to come, there shall be a king unsatisfied with his own borders, who shall gather his own four divisions of troops to invade another's own territory, unrestrained and unwilling to follow the true teaching; at that time, the people who die shall be many indeed.

The clear water, pure at its edges yet muddied at its center: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; the people of the central lands shall delight in strife and disorder, while the people of the outlying lands shall remain free of contention.

The dog urinating in a golden vessel: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; the very treasure of the Dharma I have gathered through diligent effort across three asaṃkhyeya kalpas shall be slandered, and my own śrāvaka disciples struck with sword, staff, tile, and stone, accused of teaching what is unlawful, while those who compose mere idle songs and verses shall be praised instead.

The four oxen coming from the four directions, butting against one another, then scattering and returning: in an age to come, beings shall practice unlawful conduct, constantly harboring greed and envy, in accordance with false teachings; at that time, great clouds shall rise from all four directions, thunder and lightning shall strike, yet no rain shall fall, and the clouds shall simply disperse.

These are the ten dreams, and their true meanings, exactly as I have explained. Great king, these ten dreams of yours carry these ten corresponding omens; because of this, you need not fear at all — you shall not die, nor lose your own throne because of them. All of these are simply how it shall be in the final, degenerate age still to come. Great king, you should understand this well. The king was greatly delighted (Source: Ekottara Āgama, fascicle 41).

King Prasenajit's own daughter, Pótuó, died; he had cherished her so dearly that he had never once let her out of his own sight. Once her funeral rites were complete, he went personally to the Tathāgata, bowed at his feet, and sat to one side. The Buddha asked: why, great king, are your robes so soiled with dust, and your own grief so deep?

The king said: I had a single daughter who has just died; I loved her so dearly that, once her burial was complete, I wished I could ransom her own life back with an elephant, or even with my own carriages, horses, and buried treasure — yet this grief and suffering, I know, arises entirely from attachment and love itself.

The Buddha said: and why is this so? Great king, in ancient times, in this very city of Śrāvastī, there was a man whose own daughter died; he had loved her so dearly, never letting her from his sight, that he went half mad with grief, wandering everywhere, asking people: who has seen my own daughter? Great king, by this very example, know that grief and suffering arise entirely from attachment and love. Great king, hold no further grief — for all attachment and love must, in the end, come to separation, and whatever is born must, in the end, come to ruin. He then taught the Dharma to him at length in this way, and the king received his teaching and departed (Source: Sūtra of King Prasenajit's Request to the Buddha After His Daughter's Death).

In Śrāvastī there lived a brahmin of great lineage, named Yajñadatta, possessed of abundant wealth. He had a servant girl named Yellow-Head, who was always kept to tend the Mallikā garden. This servant girl constantly grieved, saying to herself: when shall I ever be freed from this servitude?

One morning, having received her own ration of dried rice, she carried it with her to the garden. At that moment, the World-Honored One entered the city to beg for alms, and Yellow-Head, seeing the Tathāgata from a distance, thought to herself: might I not offer this very rice to this śramaṇa? Perhaps it could free me from this servitude. She offered the rice to the Buddha at once, and the World-Honored One, in his own compassion, accepted it, and returned to the monastery. Yellow-Head then went on into the Mallikā garden.

King Prasenajit, meanwhile, had prepared his own four divisions of troops and gone out hunting; his own attendants had scattered in pursuit of a herd of deer. The day growing very hot, he saw the Mallikā garden from a distance, and, turning his own carriage toward it, walked in on foot. Yellow-Head, seeing Prasenajit approach from afar, and recognizing from his own bearing and movement that he was no ordinary person, came forward to greet him: welcome, great one — please, take a seat here — and, removing one of her own garments, spread it out for the king to sit upon.

Yellow-Head then asked: might you wish for water, to wash your own feet? The king assented, and she brought water and washed his feet herself. She asked again: would you like to wash your face as well? — and brought water for this too. She asked again: would you like something to drink? — and, going to the pool, washed her own hands, and, taking a fine lotus leaf, filled it with water and offered it to the king. She asked yet again: might you wish to rest and lie down? — and, removing another of her own garments, spread it out for him.

Once the king had lain down, she knelt at length before him, and massaged his own feet and limbs, easing his fatigue. Yellow-Head's own body was as fine and soft as a heavenly being's; the king, delighted by this smooth, gentle care, thought to himself: never before have I encountered a woman so clever as this — she has done everything perfectly, without my ever having instructed her at all.

The king asked her: whose daughter are you? She answered: I am a servant of the household of Yajñadatta, assigned to tend this garden.

As they spoke, the king's own ministers, following the tracks of his carriage, arrived at the garden, and knelt before the king, standing to one side. The king ordered one of them: summon the brahmin Yajñadatta here. The brahmin came before the king, who asked him: is this girl your own servant? He answered: she is. The king said: I now wish to take her as my own wife — what say you to this?

He answered: she is but a servant — how could she become your wife? The king said: there is no difficulty in this — let us simply agree on a price. The brahmin said: if it is a matter of price, then a hundred thousand taels of gold — yet how could I possibly accept payment from the king? I offer her to you freely instead. The king said: no — since I take her as my own wife, how could I fail to pay a price for her? — and gave him a hundred thousand taels of gold at once.

He then had her brought back to the palace, escorted by all his own ministers; because she had been found in the Mallikā garden, she was given the very name Queen Mallikā. The king cherished and honored her greatly, and, at a later time, elevated her to the position of chief consort among his own five hundred women.

Standing in her own high palace, she thought to herself: through what karmic cause have I come to be freed from servitude, and now enjoy such happiness as this? And she thought further: it must surely be that earlier offering of honeyed, dried rice I gave to the śramaṇa — it is through this very cause that I have now been freed from servitude, and come to enjoy such happiness (Source: Four-Part Vinaya, first division, fascicle 13).

Long ago there was a buddha named Beginningless. At that time there was a king named Good-Faith, who delighted greatly in the Buddha's own teaching, never once tiring of gazing upon him. He planted a nyagrodha tree, and, beneath it, laid out a couch of sandalwood for the Buddha, upon which the Buddha sat while King Good-Faith listened to his teaching.

After the Buddha's own nirvāṇa, the king, no longer able to see him, took this same nyagrodha tree as a stand-in for the Buddha himself, regarding it as though seeing the Buddha directly, and went each day to sit beneath it, in the very place he had always sat, imagining he still heard the teaching there.

The king had a servant, named Jūlù, who constantly attended him. The king's own consort, out of jealousy, hired a brahmin to curse and kill this "Buddha-tree." Following this brahmin's own instructions, on the night of the seventh day of the fourth month, she took the venom from a great poisonous snake in the southern mountains, and smeared it upon the tree, which withered and died at once. The king, seeing this, wept without restraint.

On the night of the eighth day of the fourth month, at midnight, as the morning star rose, water of five fragrant colors was gathered together with flowers, and poured over the tree — and it came back to life at once.

The king then made this vow: may every buddha of the ten directions, in every age to come, be born on this very day; may they attain the path on this very day; and may they enter final nirvāṇa on this very day as well. And, from that time onward, every buddha's own appearance in the world has indeed fallen upon this same day — and it is for this reason that the Buddha is bathed on the eighth day of the fourth month (Source: Sūtra of the Fruits of Past Vows).

The physician-king Jīvaka invited the Buddha and the Saṅgha to a feast, but overlooked Cūḍapanthaka. Cūḍapanthaka, who had spent four months trying to memorize even the mere words for "broom," was, in the end, never invited at all.

The Tathāgata and the Saṅgha went and took their seats at Jīvaka's own household. When purified water was brought for the Tathāgata, he would not accept it. Jīvaka asked the Buddha: I wonder, by what cause does the Tathāgata not accept this water? The Buddha told Jīvaka: this assembly does not include the monk Cūḍapanthaka — it is for this reason that I do not accept it.

Jīvaka said to the Buddha: this Cūḍapanthaka is dull and foolish — even a mere herdsman of cattle and sheep surpasses him. The Buddha told Jīvaka: unless you invite Cūḍapanthaka, I shall not accept this purified water.

Jīvaka, following the Buddha's own instruction, sent someone at once to summon Cūḍapanthaka. The Buddha told Ānanda: hand your own bowl to Cūḍapanthaka, and have him pass it to me from where he sits, without rising. Jīvaka, witnessing this display of spiritual power, was struck with deep remorse: alas, what a grave error — to have shown such contempt toward a truly noble and wise being! Only today do I realize how grave my own fault of speech has been. He then gave rise to a heart of reverence toward the monk Cūḍapanthaka exceeding even his own regard for the five hundred other monks.

The World-Honored One then explained at length: in a past age, Jīvaka was a merchant who dealt in trade and exchange, and once drove a thousand horses to another country. Along the way, one of the mares gave birth to a foal, which he gave to a beggar along the road, before continuing on to that other country and meeting with its own king.

The king told this horse-merchant: your thousand horses here are all quite ordinary — but one horse there cries out with a distinctive voice; it must surely have borne a fine foal. Should that foal, once grown, be brought to me, I would buy every one of your thousand horses; otherwise, I have no need of them at all.

The merchant then went in search of the place where he had given the foal away. The foal, not yet ten days old, had already begun to speak in human words, and told its own new owner: should the horse-merchant come seeking me, you may accept five hundred horses in exchange for me.

The merchant, seeking to redeem the foal, offered only a single fine horse in exchange. The man answered him: I never forced you to give this foal to me in the first place, and have raised it with my own care and labor since — if you now truly want it back, you must redeem it with five hundred horses, and only then shall I return it to you. The merchant agreed to this.

Just as that foal was once given away cheaply, only to be reclaimed later at a price ten times greater still, so too has this present matter of Cūḍapanthaka's own dullness had a cause reaching back a long time — it is by no means confined to today alone (Source: Sūtra of Inviting the Monk Cūḍapanthaka).

Long ago, King Bimbisāra's own ancestor had this law for punishing wrongdoers: whoever committed theft would simply have their own head struck with an open hand — the thief, so deeply shamed by this alone, felt it no different from death itself, and never offended again.

By the time of his own father's reign, the punishment was this: whoever committed theft would be driven out of the city as a severe warning — the thief, likewise deeply shamed, felt this no different from death itself, and never offended again.

When Bimbisāra himself succeeded to the throne, the punishment became: whoever committed theft would be driven out of the kingdom entirely. There was, at that time, a certain thief who was driven out seven times over, yet each time returned to plunder and kill in the villages and towns regardless. At last, he was bound and brought before the king, who said: take him away, and cut off one of his small fingers.

The officer in charge, in his own haste, carried out the amputation at once, fearing the king might have second thoughts. The king himself, testing the pain by biting his own finger, found it nearly unbearable, and sent word at once that the cutting should be stopped — but his own minister answered him: it has already been done.

The king was struck with deep grief and regret, and thought to himself: I am the very last in a line of righteous kings, yet I have become the very first to commit an unlawful act. A true king ought to hold his own people's welfare foremost in his heart — yet I have had a man's own body mutilated.

He had his own carriage prepared at once, and went before the Buddha, telling him: my own great-grandfather, grandfather, and father, all ruled their people by the true Dharma — yet, in my own generation, wrongdoing has only increased day by day, and true governance has grown correspondingly thin; I have wrongly come to kingship, only to injure and mutilate another's own body. Reflecting on my own lack of the true path, my own shame and dread run deep indeed.

The Buddha asked the great king: by what law does your own kingdom govern theft — at what sum of stolen money does the transgression warrant death, and at what sum mere banishment, and what measure determines the punishment used? The king said: World-Honored One, nineteen ancient coins make one quarter of a kārṣāpaṇa, and four such quarters make one full kārṣāpaṇa — should someone steal even a single quarter, the transgression already warrants death by our own law.

The Buddha then taught him the Dharma, and the king, bowing before the Buddha, withdrew.

The monks then asked: why does King Bimbisāra dread transgression so deeply? The Buddha said: it is not only in this present life that he has dreaded transgression in this way.

In a past age, there was a kingdom named Kāśī, whose king was named Renown. The people of that kingdom were all skilled in some craft or trade, sufficient to sustain their own livelihood; whoever lacked any such skill was called a fool, and whoever committed theft was likewise called a fool.

There was, at that time, a man who committed theft, and was bound and brought before the king. The king said: enough, enough — that man lost his own property, and this man committed the theft — what use is there in my own further participation in this wrongdoing? He reflected: until now, there has only ever been this one fool — should the number of such fools fail to reach a thousand, I myself am fated to die.

He then had this fool placed in his own great minister's care, saying: I require a thousand fools for a great assembly I intend to hold — gather them, and, once the number is complete, report it to me. The minister took the fool into custody, confining him in a single place. The king then thought further: this fool must surely suffer in confinement — and told his own minister: care for this man well, and do not let him grow thin and weak; keep him in my own Sorrowless Garden, and provide him with music and every sensory pleasure. The minister followed this instruction, taking special care to please the king's own wishes in how he attended to him.

Before long, the number reached a full thousand. The minister reported this, and asked: now that the number is complete, what further preparations are required? The king, hearing this, was struck with great distress: until now, across such a long span of time, there was only ever this one fool — how has the number suddenly reached a thousand now? This must surely be the increase of wicked ways in this present, declining age.

The king then commanded his own ministers: sweep and clean the garden, burn incense, hang silk banners, and prepare every kind of fine food and drink. The king, together with all eighteen classes of his own officials, went to the Sorrowless Garden, and had the assembled fools brought before him — seeing their clothing torn and filthy, their nails long and hair disheveled, he ordered them bathed, their hair trimmed, and their nails cut, and provided with new clothing; only then were they brought before him, each given every kind of food, drink, and treasure, according to their own need, and told to return to their own homes, care for their own parents, apply themselves diligently to some honest trade, and never commit theft again. The fools, hearing this command, rejoiced, and obeyed it faithfully.

The king then handed his own throne to his crown prince, and went forth into the mountains to study the way of the sages. That king of that time was Bimbisāra himself, who has always dreaded transgression in this way.

The Buddha said further: it is not only in this present life, when he ordered a finger cut off and immediately regretted it, that King Bimbisāra has shown such remorse. In a past age, there was a brahmin, without any wealth of his own, who sustained himself by begging; his own wife bore him no children. In their household there had long lived a mongoose, and, in time, they had a son of their own as well; the brahmin cherished the mongoose as though it were his own child, and the mongoose, in turn, regarded the brahmin as its own father.

Some time after the wife had borne their son, the brahmin, going out to beg, told his wife: should you go out yourself, be sure to take the child with you. His wife, however, taking food for the child, went to a neighboring house to have grain pounded, leaving the child behind, still smelling of milk and cream. A venomous snake, opening its own mouth to spit poison, meant to kill the small child.

The mongoose thought to itself: my own parents are away — how could I let this venomous snake kill my own little brother? — and killed the snake at once, tearing it into seven pieces, and, its own mouth smeared with the snake's blood, stood before the doorway, hoping its parents would see this and rejoice.

The brahmin, returning from outside, saw his own wife standing outside the house from a distance, and, angered, said: I told you to take the child with you when you went out — why have you gone alone? The father then entered the house, and, seeing the mongoose's own mouth smeared with blood, thought at once: my wife and I were both away — the mongoose must surely have killed and eaten our own child! — and struck the mongoose dead with his own staff.

Entering further, he then saw his own child sitting safely in the courtyard, playing, sucking on its own fingers — and, seeing too the venomous snake torn into seven pieces, was overcome with grief and remorse: it was this very mongoose that saved my own child's life, and, failing to look carefully, I have killed it in an instant — how painful, how pitiable this is! He fell to the ground, overwhelmed with anguish.

At that moment, a deva in the open sky spoke this verse:

"One should observe carefully and examine closely, / and never act in a sudden fit of rage — / for parting with a good friend's own love and devotion / through wrongful harm brings a grief that pierces deep."

That brahmin of that time is King Bimbisāra now (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 2).

King Bimbisāra asked Maudgalyāyana: in which heaven is the finest food to be found? Maudgalyāyana answered, with admiration: in the heaven of the Four Heavenly Kings. Bimbisāra resolved that he should be reborn there — and, indeed, was first reborn in that very heaven, and afterward in Tuṣita heaven, where, at the end of that life, he became the crown prince of Vaiśravaṇa, king of the devas, named Foremost-Victor.

As Maudgalyāyana himself further explained: the very first humans, who moved by crawling upon their own chest, are called Mahoraga; those born with three hands are called elephants. It was asked: why are such beings sometimes called human, sometimes Mahoraga, sometimes elephant? It was answered: because these beings, at the end of their own lifespan in the Ābhāsvara heaven, were reborn here below, at that time taking birth among animals, yet retaining a form still resembling a human being. As their own food, intent, and cunning deceit grew ever more corrupt, their human likeness gradually diminished, until they became true animals, their form now like that of a toad (Source: Vibhāṣā, fascicle 14).

At that time the king of Rājagṛha was named Bimbisāra, who, in his youth as crown prince, had made five wishes: first, that he might become king while still young; second, that a buddha might appear within his own kingdom; third, that he might visit the Buddha often; fourth, that he might constantly hear the Dharma taught; and fifth, that, hearing it, he might swiftly attain understanding and reach the fruit of stream-entry. Every one of these wishes was granted to him.

North of Rājagṛha lay another kingdom, named Takṣaśilā, whose king was named Pukkusāti, a man of exceedingly lofty and independent spirit, who had once, in a past life, already seen the Buddha and received his own teaching, and who now studied the teaching of the six elements within the body — earth, water, fire, wind, space, and consciousness.

King Bimbisāra and King Pukkusāti, though they had never once met in person, held each other in distant affection and respect, as though brothers, and constantly exchanged letters and gifts. A lotus flower with a thousand golden petals once grew in King Pukkusāti's own kingdom, and he sent it as a gift to King Bimbisāra, who, seeing this flower, was overjoyed, and said: King Pukkusāti has sent me a truly rare and extraordinary gift.

King Bimbisāra then wrote to King Pukkusāti, saying: my own kingdom holds great abundance of gold, silver, and every treasure, yet I do not consider these my own true treasure — for, within my kingdom, there has now appeared a flower among men, called the Buddha, his own body the color of pure gold, marked with the thirty-two signs.

King Pukkusāti, hearing the very name of the Buddha, was overjoyed, and wrote back to King Bimbisāra, asking him to explain in full the Buddha's own teaching and practice.

Some days later, King Pukkusāti thought to himself: a person's own life cannot be known even from one breath to the next — I cannot wait any longer for Bimbisāra's own reply. He commanded the lesser kings and ministers under his own rule to prepare to set out at once for the Buddha's own place.

Along the way, he encountered King Bimbisāra's own letter, which said: the Buddha teaches that one should abandon home, wife, and children, and cut off craving and desire, shaving one's own head and beard, and, donning monastic robes, become a śramaṇa — and the letter further set out the twelve links of dependent origination, sending this teaching to King Pukkusāti.

Having read this letter, King Pukkusāti reflected deeply on it. That very night, once his own ministers and officials had all gone to sleep, he rose quietly, without a sound, and slipped away alone, going to a burial ground, where he shaved his own head, and, donning monastic robes, became a śramaṇa himself.

The Buddha, with his own divine eye, saw that Pukkusāti had arrived at Rājagṛha, and was lodging in a potter's own workshop. The Buddha, knowing that King Pukkusāti's own life would end the very next day, flew at once to the potter's workshop, asking to lodge there for a single night. The potter answered: you may certainly stay.

The Buddha sat composed in one corner, and thought to himself: this Pukkusāti is calm and tranquil — and, rising, went before him, and asked: from which teacher have you received the path, that you have become a śramaṇa? Pukkusāti answered: I have heard of a buddha, and now serve him as my own teacher.

The Buddha thought: this worthy man has become a śramaṇa purely for my own sake — I should now teach him the very scripture concerning knowledge of past lives, and only then will he truly understand. The Buddha said: let me now explain this teaching to you — listen well. Pukkusāti said, very well.

The Buddha then taught him the Dharma, and Pukkusāti attained the third fruit, that of non-returner, and, only then, recognized that this was indeed the Buddha himself, and rose at once to bow before him.

The next day, not far into the city, a young, still-toothless ox gored Pukkusāti to death. The monks asked the Buddha: yesterday, at the potter's workshop, the Buddha taught this śramaṇa the Dharma — and now he has been gored to death by an ox; to which realm shall he go?

The Buddha said: having received my own teaching, he had already attained the fruit of non-returner, and shall be reborn in the sixteenth heaven, where he shall attain arhatship. He then had the monks together gather Pukkusāti's own remains, bury them properly, and raise a stūpa over them (Source: Sūtra of King Bimbisāra's Five Wishes; also found in the Sūtra of King Pukkusāti's Own Karmic Causes).

There was, at that time, a deva named Rohitassa, of surpassing beauty, who came before the Buddha in the latter part of the night, and said: World-Honored One, is there any way to travel beyond the very edge of the world, to a place free of birth, old age, and death? The Buddha told Rohitassa: there is no one who can ever reach such a place.

The deva Rohitassa said further to the Buddha: how remarkable, World-Honored One, that you should teach this truth so well — for it is exactly as the World-Honored One says. And why do I say this? I recall my own past life, when I was named Rohitassa, and was a non-Buddhist sage-ascetic, who had attained supernormal power and freedom from craving and desire. I thought to myself then: with such swift, spiritual speed as mine — like a mighty warrior shooting a sharp arrow clear across the shadow of a palm tree in an instant — I could climb Mount Sumeru itself, and, from one such peak, stride with a single step from the eastern sea clear across to the western sea.

Believing in my own swift spiritual power in this way, I resolved to seek out the very edge of the world, and set out at once, pausing only for food, rest, and bodily necessity, sleeping as little as I could, and traveled continuously for a hundred years — yet, still upon the road, my own life came to its end before I could ever arrive, and I simply vanished from that place entirely (Source: Saṃyukta Āgama, fascicle 29).

In a foreign land, there was once a harmful rain that, whenever it fell into rivers, lakes, streams, wells, or ponds, caused anyone who drank from them afterward to become deranged and delirious for seven days. There was a king, clever and wise, who understood the nature of this harmful rain, and, seeing the clouds that brought it, knew in advance to have a single well covered over, so that no rain could fall into it.

At that time, all his own officials and ministers drank from water tainted by the harmful rain, and the whole court fell into madness — stripping off their own clothes, sitting naked, smearing mud upon their own heads, seated within the king's own palace hall. Only the king himself remained unaffected.

Yet none of the officials recognized their own madness at all; instead, they declared the king himself mad, asking why he alone remained clothed, so different from everyone else, and said among themselves: this is no small matter — we must consider together what is to be done about it.

The king, fearing his own ministers might rise against him, grew afraid, and told them: I possess a fine medicine that can cure this very affliction of my own — wait here a moment, while I take it. The king then went within, removed his own clothing, and came back out exactly as they were. All his ministers, seeing this, rejoiced greatly.

Seven days later, his ministers regained their own senses, and, struck with deep shame, each dressed themselves properly and came before the king for their own morning audience — yet the king still sat there, naked, exactly as before. His ministers, astonished, asked him: my king has always been so clever and wise — why do you behave this way now?

The king answered them: my own mind has remained constant and unchanging throughout — it was only because you yourselves were mad that you took me, in turn, for the mad one; that was never my own true state of mind at all (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, fascicle 4).