Queens

Long ago, King Aśoka, before he yet understood the Buddha's own teaching, had built a whole system of hells, in which anyone brought there was tormented by every kind of cruel poison. Later, coming to faith, he abandoned all such wrongdoing, and served the true awakening instead.

When plague later struck his own people, the king sealed off his palace, allowing no contact within or without, fearing the illness might reach him and his own household, and sent word to the noble assembly, begging that a dedication of blessing be pronounced from afar, and that a single monk be sent into the palace to bring about, throughout the land, the cessation of the illness. The assembled Saṅgha took up this request, and asked to be told the matter in full.

The noble assembly then sent a novice, only eight years old, named Fine-Countenance, who had already attained arhatship, complete with every supernormal power. He flew to the royal palace, and, before the consorts and attendant women there, proclaimed: whatever you may lack, know first this: if even a mere disciple can display such virtue as this, how much more honored still must the Buddha himself be!

Fine-Countenance, receiving this instruction, flew into the royal palace, and stood before the queen. The queen bowed to him, and, raising her own hands, wished to embrace him, saying: Fine-Countenance, my child, how could you trouble yourself to come, and display your own spiritual power for us? Fine-Countenance told her: step back, step back — it is not fitting that you draw so close to a śramaṇa.

The queen answered him: you are still so young, only eight years old — my own heart feels toward you exactly as it would toward my own child; what harm could there possibly be in drawing close to you? The novice answered: to draw close through mere affection, as the queen now proposes, is itself the very origin of feeling — for feeling arises from the smallest beginning, just as a single spark can burn a field ten thousand li wide, or as a mere trickle of dripping water can, in time, wear a hole clean through jade or stone, and fill an entire vessel besides. All such things proceed gradually — from little to much, from small to great. It is for this very reason that the wise keep their distance from whatever might invite suspicion, guarding against what has not yet come to pass.

The novice and the queen continued this exchange back and forth, their own voices growing louder, until the sound carried all the way to the main hall. The king asked his own attendants: whose voices are these, as though in dispute? His attendants answered: the novice Fine-Countenance has come into the palace, and is speaking with the queen — their voices, raised so, can be heard even here.

The king rose at once and went to meet them, bowing and asking what the dispute concerned. The novice answered: the honored queen, seeing my own countenance, was moved to affection, and wished to draw near me — yet this does not accord with the proper conduct of the path, and so I refused her.

King Aśoka said: you are still so young, like my own child — what harm could there be in her holding you with affection? Why answer her with such stern words? The novice answered: it is not as the king says. The ancient sages established proper ritual conduct precisely to forestall what has not yet arisen, and to guard against it from beginning to end — a girl of seven should not play upon her own father's writing-desk; a boy of eight should not sit casually upon his own mother's bed; one should not touch one's own head after handling fruit hung low; one should not grope with bare feet through a melon field. And why is this so? Because it is precisely by keeping distance from suspicion, and guarding against it at its very first stirring, that its later growth is prevented.

My own heart is already pure, without the slightest shadow of impurity in it at all — like a lotus flower, untouched by the very mud and water it grows from, or like a vessel of crystal or lapis lazuli. This is indeed exactly what the Tathāgata himself has taught: that even where the bond between a mother and her own child seems to permit no distinction at all, one should still act, for the sake of those less capable of such purity, as though a distinction were needed.

The king and the queen, hearing this explanation, were struck with astonishment and admiration: if even a child of a mere eight years already holds such regard for the many dangers involved, how much more should this concern those already grown, whose own three poisons remain unextinguished! The novice then taught them the Dharma; the queen and more than five hundred of her own attendant women all attained a glimpse of the path, and the true queen, the king's own attendants, and the crown prince all gave rise to the resolve for the path, and, in that very moment, attained the stage of non-retrogression (Source: Sūtra of the Eight-Year-Old Novice Who Opened the King's Understanding).

Long ago, the consort of the king of Vārāṇasī conceived, and, knowing herself pregnant, told the king; he provided for her care and attendance in every way, ensuring her own comfort. When the ten months were complete, she gave birth to a single piece of flesh, red as a hibiscus flower.

Every other consort had borne dignified, well-formed children, while she alone had given birth to a mere piece of flesh, without hands or feet at all; struck with deep shame, and fearing the king would surely despise her should he see it, she placed it in a vessel, hammered a thin sheet of gold, and inscribed upon it in vermilion: this is what was born to the consort of the king of Vārāṇasī. She covered the vessel's mouth, sealed it with the king's own royal seal, fastened the gold inscription to its outside, and had it sent out and set adrift upon the river, abandoned there. Spirits and deities, watching over it, kept the waters calm, free of wind or wave.

There was, at that time, a hermit dwelling by the riverbank near a group of cowherds, who, bathing one clear morning, saw this vessel from a distance, and retrieved it. Seeing the gold inscription, and the royal seal upon it, he opened the vessel, and found within only a piece of flesh. He thought to himself: were this merely dead flesh, it would already have rotted and stunk — there must be something unusual about it. He carried it back to his own dwelling, and set it carefully in one place.

After half a month, it split into two pieces; another half month later, each of these two pieces developed five swellings; and, after a further half month, one piece became a boy, and the other a girl — the boy's own complexion the color of gold, the girl's the color of silver.

The hermit, seeing this, felt love and tenderness for them as though they were his own children, and, from the two thumbs of his own hands, milk began to flow spontaneously — from one thumb, milk for the boy; from the other, milk for the girl. This milk, entering the children's own bodies, left them as clear and radiant, within and without, as a maṇi jewel in clear water. The hermit named the children Licchavi ("thin-skinned," or, in another rendering, "same-skinned," in the language of Liang).

The hermit raised these two children with great hardship, going each morning to beg for alms in the nearby village, and returning only late in the day, all for the sake of these two children.

The cowherds, seeing the hermit endure such hardship for the sake of these two children, said to him: great one, a renunciant ought properly to devote himself to the path — why let these two children hinder and burden your own practice? Let us take them in, and we ourselves shall raise and care for them. The hermit said: very good.

The cowherds then returned to their own homes, and, the next day, together with their own companions, leveled and cleared the road, raised banners, scattered flowers of every color, and, sounding drums, came to receive the two children, and told the hermit: it is now time for these two children to come with us. The hermit entrusted them, saying: these two children possess great merit beyond measure — care for them well, and provide them with the five kinds of dairy: milk, curds, fresh butter, aged butter, and ghee. Once they are grown, they shall be married to one another; find them a fine, level, and spacious place to settle and dwell, and you may honor the boy as king, and the girl as his own consort.

The cowherds, following this instruction, departed. When the two children reached sixteen years of age, a level and spacious tract of land, a hundred yojanas across, was found, and a dwelling built at its own center; the girl was married to the boy, and the two became husband and wife. Afterward, she bore two children at a time, one boy and one girl, and this continued through sixteen such births.

The cowherds, seeing the royal offspring grow ever more numerous, expanded the dwellings further still, building additional gardens and grounds, until thirty-two people's own households were gathered there in all — and, expanding in this way three times over, the settlement came to be named Vaiśālī (Source: Samantapāsādikā, fascicle 10).

The Buddha, together with twelve hundred and fifty monks, traveled to the Beautiful-Sound Monastery in the country of Jūlánní; the very moment his own foot crossed the threshold, heaven and earth shook, pearls and musical instruments sounded of themselves without being played, hidden poisons and curses lost their power, and auspicious signs of peace and clarity appeared everywhere — the whole land's own people could not help but look up to him in reverence.

The king of that land was named Udayana, forceful and given to conquest, who indulged flattering counsel and lost himself in the entertainment of women. He kept two chief consorts at his own side, both of surpassing beauty: the one on his left was named Bright-Hall, arrogant and given to slander and jealousy; the one on his right was named Xuǎnróng, who constantly practiced benevolence and love. The king treasured her own character, and favored her privately in most matters.

Xuǎnróng had an elderly servant woman, named Dùshèng, who constantly distributed incense, saving and gathering her own modest funds, to offer meals to the Buddha and his monks. The Buddha taught her the Dharma, which she held in her heart, never forgetting it. Once her offering was made, she would return to the palace, still carrying the very incense she had distributed — and, through the power of this merit, the incense from her own past practice carried a fragrance that spread far, its own weight doubled in scent.

Xuǎnróng, questioning her about this, learned that she had, from the very start, been reducing her own incense allowance in order to offer meals to the Buddha and his monks, whose teaching held a depth and subtlety unheard of in this world. Xuǎnróng, hearing of the Buddha, was filled with joy, and, reflecting that she herself had no means of hearing the true Dharma, told Dùshèng: teach it to me yourself.

Dùshèng said: my own station is lowly, and my own speech unrefined — I would not dare presume to proclaim the Tathāgata's own honored words myself. I beg leave to go to the Buddha, and receive his own instruction directly, and then return. And so she was sent from the palace, with this further instruction: receive the full and proper ceremony from him.

Before Dùshèng had yet returned, the consort and her own attendant women had already crowded the central courtyard, waiting. The Buddha told Dùshèng: return, and teach the Dharma — many shall be delivered by it; and the proper form for teaching the Dharma requires first that a high seat be prepared.

Dùshèng returned and proclaimed the Buddha's own sacred instruction in full. Xuǎnróng, delighted, opened her own chests, and piled up robes to form a high seat, and, receiving the Buddha's own majestic power, taught the Dharma exactly as instructed. The consort Xuǎnróng and her attendant women all had their own doubts resolved, and attained the path; Dùshèng herself attained the power of retention.

Bright-Hall, in her own jealousy, reproached and slandered them again and again, though the king would not at first heed her — yet, hearing this slander repeated, the king's own heart eventually grew confused by it. Watching for a time when Xuǎnróng was keeping the fast, Bright-Hall urged the king to hold a musical gathering, and summon all the consorts. The king issued a general summons, and all came as commanded — except Xuǎnróng alone, who, keeping the fast, would not answer the call. Summoned three times over, she held firm to her own observance without wavering, and the king, his own anger mounting, had her bound and dragged before the palace hall, intending to have her shot to death.

Xuǎnróng, in that very moment, held the Buddha in her own heart with single-pointed devotion — and the king's own two arrows, shot at her, both turned back upon himself instead. The king, terrified, had her released at once, and asked her: what art do you possess, that has brought this about? She answered: I hold to nothing but service to the Tathāgata, and take refuge in the Three Jewels — each morning, I keep the Buddha's own fast, eating nothing past midday, and observe the eight precepts, adorning myself with nothing else at all; it must surely be the World-Honored One's own compassionate protection that has caused this.

The king said: excellent — how could I fail to acknowledge this? I shall go myself to the monastery, to pay my own respects to the World-Honored One.

It happened, at that time, that a rival kingdom raised an army and invaded the king's own borders; the king himself went out to lead the campaign, and, before departing, entrusted the affairs of state to a brahmin named Lucky-Star to govern in his own stead. Bright-Hall, delighted at this, thought to herself: now that my own father governs in the king's place, Xuǎnróng's death is certain. She conspired with her own father, and had Xuǎnróng and her attendant women burned to death, falsely claiming it to be an accidental fire meant to conceal the truth.

The matter later came to light. The king, filled with great fury, banished Lucky-Star far beyond the kingdom's own borders, and had Bright-Hall and her own accomplices confined in an underground cell, and thereafter cast aside every false teaching, and spread the Buddha's own teaching widely throughout his realm (Source: Sūtra of the Middle Account of Origins).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī, where the king and all his ministers alike looked up to him in reverence. There was, at that time, a merchant named Bōlì, who went out to sea with five hundred other merchants in search of treasure. A sea deity emerged, scooping up water in cupped hands, and asked Bōlì: which is greater — the sea's own water, or the water held in my own hands? Bōlì answered: the water in your own hands is greater. For, though the sea's own water is vast, it cannot save a person truly dying of hunger and thirst; yet the water held in your own hands, however small, can save a life on the verge of death from thirst — and such a life, saved, receives blessing beyond all reckoning across lives to come.

The sea deity, delighted, removed a necklace of eight kinds of fragrance from its own body, adorned with the seven treasures, and gave it to Bōlì. Bōlì, returning to his own country, offered this fragrant necklace to King Prasenajit, who treasured it as a rare and wondrous thing, and had all his own consorts assembled, intending to give it to whichever among them proved most beautiful.

All sixty thousand consorts came forth, finely adorned — except Queen Mallikā did not appear. The king asked why. Her attendants answered: today is the fifteenth day, and she keeps the Buddha's own fast, wearing plain, undecorated robes. The king said: does keeping the fast now require defying the king's own command? This was repeated three times over, until Queen Mallikā at last came forth in her own plain robes — and yet, among the whole assembly, she shone as bright as the sun and moon, more beautiful than ever before.

The king, struck with awe, showed her still greater reverence, and asked: what virtue is it that makes you shine so distinctly? The queen answered him: reflecting that I myself hold but little merit, having been born in this very female form, my own defiled habits of mind piling up day and night like a mountain, and that human life is so brief, I fear falling into the three lower realms — it is for this reason that I observe the Buddha's own fast each month, cutting off attachment to follow the path, that I might receive blessing across every life to come.

The king, delighted to hear this, offered her the fragrant necklace. The queen declined, saying: as I am keeping the fast today, it would not be fitting for me to wear this — give it to another instead. The king said: my own original intent was to give it to whoever proved most excellent — and you are now the most excellent of all, your own devotion to the Dharma-fast and resolve for the path exceptionally high; it is for this very reason that I give it to you. Should you refuse it, where else could I possibly place it?

The queen answered: great king, do not trouble yourself over this — I ask only that you condescend to come with me to the Buddha, and offer this fragrant necklace to the World-Honored One himself, that we might gather blessing across kalpas to come through his own sacred teaching instead. The king consented at once, and had his carriage prepared, and went to the Buddha, saying: this fragrant necklace, offered by the sea deity through Bōlì, was coveted by every one of my sixty thousand consorts — yet Queen Mallikā alone, though it was given to her, did not take it for herself, keeping the Buddha's own fast with a heart free of covetous desire, and now respectfully offers it to the Buddha instead. I ask only that you accept it.

The World-Honored One said: the World-Honored One's own disciples hold to a resolve of mind rarely matched — such simple, direct faith as this — how could it fail to bring blessing? And so the World-Honored One accepted the fragrant necklace, and spoke this verse:

"However many jeweled flowers one gathers, / woven into swaying, ornamented steps, / it is the broad accumulation of virtue's own fragrance / that makes whatever follows finer still. / Rare grass and fragrant blossoms alike / cannot spread their scent against the wind — / yet the fragrance of the virtuous, spread near the path, / reaches everywhere, with or against it. / Sandalwood's own rich fragrance, / the blue lotus's own fragrant bloom — / true as these may be said to be, / neither equals the fragrance of the precepts kept. / The scent of flowers is faint, / and can hardly be called lasting — / yet the fragrance of one who keeps the precepts / reaches all the way to the heavens themselves, supreme above all others. / Where the precepts are perfectly fulfilled, / and conduct remains free of heedlessness, / a settled mind attains liberation, / forever parted from Māra's own path."

(Source: Dharmapada, fascicle 2)

The king of Pántí was named Yōudá, who, in the age of Kāśyapa Buddha, had already once gone forth to cultivate the path, and, encountering Śākyamuni in turn, attained a glimpse of the path once more. His own kingdom was rich and its people thriving; the king had twenty thousand consorts, the foremost among them named Moon-Bright, of dignified and lovely appearance, whom the king loved and honored dearly.

Not six months later, signs of the queen's own approaching death appeared, and the king was struck with deep grief. Moon-Bright asked him why, and the king said: your own life is nearing its end, and the pain of parting from one so beloved is why I grieve. Moon-Bright answered: all who are born must die — this is simply the constant way of the world; why should you alone grieve over it? If you truly cherish me, then let me go forth as a renunciant, that I might have the king's own permission to enter the path.

She said further: should I go forth, and, even if I do not yet complete the path, I shall surely be reborn in heaven — and, once reborn there, I shall return to you, that you too might have my own permission to go forth in turn. The king agreed to this vow.

Moon-Bright then summoned a nun, and, at once, renounced the five sensory pleasures entirely. Yet, because so many people came to visit and pay their respects to her, out of reverence, hindering her own practice of the path, she traveled instead from kingdom to kingdom. Within six full months of going forth, upholding the precepts purely and growing weary of the world, she attained the fruit of non-returner, and, at the end of her life in a certain village, was reborn at once in the form-realm heaven.

Reflecting on her own past bond with the king, and the promise she had made him, she wished to fulfill her own original vow — yet, observing that the king remained sunk in the five sensory pleasures, stubborn and difficult to transform, she saw that approaching him directly would move him to nothing at all, and that only through fear could he be truly subdued.

She then transformed her own body into that of a great rākṣasa, her fur bristling, wielding a five-foot blade, and, as the king lay sleeping one night, appeared hovering in the air not far from him. The king, greatly terrified, was told: though you command a thousand million troops, you now belong to me alone, with no freedom left at all — your own time of death has arrived; by what means could you possibly save yourself?

The king answered: I have no such means — I hold only to the good I have already done, cultivating a pure mind, that I might die and be reborn in a good place. The deva said: this alone can truly be relied upon — there is no other principle beyond it. The king then asked: what spirit are you, that you should frighten me so? The deva answered: I am Moon-Bright, your own consort — you once permitted me to go forth, and, contemplating freedom from desire, I was reborn in the form-realm heaven; I have now come to fulfill our own vow.

The king said: though you say this, I still do not believe you — show me your own former form, and only then shall I believe it. The deva then transformed back into her own former appearance, her own robes and adornments exactly as before, and stood there. The king, desire stirring within him, moved at once to seize her.

Moon-Bright then rose into the open sky, and taught the king the Dharma, saying: this body is impermanent, unable to be relied upon even for the snap of a finger, like the morning dew that vanishes the moment the sun rises — do not, in ignorance of this impermanence, cling to this body of your own. Do you not see, my king, how the bloom and beauty of youth is swallowed up by old age in the end, every faculty grown feeble and worn, the eyes no longer clear, the ears no longer sharp, the very form broken and decayed, fit for nothing further — like the process of brewing wine, where only the pure essence is drawn off, and the dregs left behind are worth nothing at all. Once this body has grown old, there is nothing left in it to delight in — only death remains. This very body, born already bound to death, is impermanent through and through. Do you not see, my king, how those who die in the womb, in infancy, and in the prime of youth alike all die regardless? This body is precarious and fragile, the thief of death constantly following it; body and mind alike burn as though on fire, nothing but suffering throughout. The mind holds the three poisons within it, and the body holds cold, heat, hunger, and thirst — and yet you feel no weariness of it at all, clinging still to this very body.

The women of your own palace, the entertainers, their fine beauty, the five sensory pleasures, your own kingdom's wealth, your wife and children — none of these are truly your own at all; at the moment of death, not a single one shall follow you. If even this body itself must, in the end, be abandoned, how much more so everything else? Lost and sunk in the five sensory pleasures, swept along in the endless current of birth and death, you know no way out of it at all. You are a wise man, my king — why not grow weary of this, and go forth to seek the path yourself?

The king's own heart turned wholesome at this, and he consented to go forth. Moon-Bright, transforming once more, told him further: you should go forth, and seek the sublime Dharma, receiving and practicing it, applying yourself with diligence day and night, without ever growing slack. Having said this, she vanished at once.

The king then abdicated his own throne to his crown prince, renounced the five sensory pleasures entirely, and, taking refuge with Kātyāyana, went forth to cultivate the path. The people of that time, seeing him give up such great glory and benefit to seek the true path, came in great numbers to offer their own reverent support, hindering his own practice — and so he traveled instead to the country of Magadha, where the Buddha taught him the Dharma, and he attained arhatship.

Carrying an earthen bowl, he entered Rājagṛha to beg for alms, and, receiving stale rice, returned to the forest to sit and eat it. King Bimbisāra, out on an excursion, came to the forest, and greeted him, saying: you were once a king yourself, coming and going amid glory and attendants — now you have become a mere beggar, traveling alone to beg for food. Can this truly bring you joy? Return, give up this practice, and I shall grant you half my own kingdom to govern instead.

The renunciant answered: I myself once ruled a great kingdom, with countless towns and villages under my own rule — why, then, would I now abandon what is truly great to take up something so much smaller? This would not suit me at all.

King Bimbisāra said: you once ate the finest delicacies, served in jeweled vessels — now you carry a mere earthen bowl, begging for stale, leftover food; is this not hardship indeed? You were once attended by brave warriors as your own guard — now, alone, does this not frighten you? You once dwelt deep within a palace, surrounded by consorts and performers of exquisite beauty, delighting your eyes and ears, seated upon jeweled couches spread with fine cushions — now you sleep alone in the wild forest, with nothing but grass to sit or lie upon; is this not suffering indeed?

He answered: I am now content, with nothing left to covet or delight in. King Bimbisāra said: you are, indeed, pitiable now. He answered: it is you who are pitiable, not I. And why is this so? You remain bound by the five sensory pleasures, driven by attachment and desire, with no true freedom at all — while I myself am now truly at ease, my own mind free of any entanglement whatsoever. Bimbisāra, hearing this, returned at once, and departed (Source: Sūtra of the Miscellaneous Piṭaka).

Long ago there was a man who, seeing a stūpa monastery, wished to build one himself, but lacked sufficient wealth to do so. He made a vow to go out to sea, and, gaining gold and treasure there, build a monastery that would be foremost in the whole kingdom.

Having obtained gold and silver, he reflected carefully: who might share my own intent, and join me in building this monastery? Knowing that the king had often said he wished to build a stūpa monastery himself, though he had not yet begun, this worthy man brought pearls and fine treasure to offer the king. The king, delighted, asked where he had obtained them.

The worthy man answered: I wished to build a monastery, but could not manage it alone, and so went out to sea, and obtained this treasure, meaning to build one with it. That I have returned safely is my own first blessing; that I have obtained gold and treasure is my own second blessing; and that my own mind holds no attachment to it, wishing instead to raise a monastery, is my own third blessing. Relying on the merit of these three blessings, I now wish to build this monastery — yet I lack the labor and manpower to do so, and so I bring this to the king's own attention.

The king said: I too possess three blessings of my own. That I have come to be born as king, foremost among all people, is my own first blessing; that I possess abundant wealth, treasure, subjects, and troops is my own second blessing; and that every direction submits to me is my own third blessing. Let us build this monastery together.

The king then summoned his own five hundred consorts, and gave each a pearl; all five hundred adorned themselves, each eager to obtain her own pearl — save for the chief consort alone, who did not adorn herself at all. The king asked why. She answered that she too possessed three blessings of her own, which had brought her to become the king's own chief consort: that she was honored throughout the whole palace was her own first blessing; that she had borne a son who became crown prince was her own second blessing; and that she constantly delighted in the scriptures and the path, wishing to build a stūpa monastery herself, was her own third blessing.

The king said: excellent — and gave her the pearl as well. The chief consort then contributed a hundred thousand taels of gold to help the king build the monastery. The king and this worthy man of the kingdom together built a monastery a thousand paces wide, carved and adorned throughout with gold and silver.

The king then said: only we three possess such blessing as this — shall the people of my own kingdom not share in it as well? He sent messengers to proclaim throughout every street and quarter: whoever holds abundant goodwill in their own heart shall receive blessing beyond measure.

There was a destitute woman, who possessed only a single small hut, and begged for her own clothing and food. Hearing this proclamation, she reproached herself: because I have never once given in charity, I now find myself in such poverty. She removed her own cloth skirt, and threw it toward the messenger, saying: let this skirt help the king's own cause — my own body is now left bare, with no clothing left to go out in at all.

The king, hearing of this, was struck with astonishment that she should hold such a wholesome heart, and ordered her brought before him at once. The messenger said: this woman has no clothing left to wear. The king ordered his own five hundred consorts to each provide a single garment for her, and had her fetched quickly. The king, upon seeing her, honored her at once as his own second chief consort, and had her instruct the women of his own palace (Source: Ten-Fascicle Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 4).