Crown Princes, Part 1

The crown prince of the kingdom of Qiántuóshīlì held no love for worldly glory, and dwelt instead as a recluse among the mountains and marshes. In the depths of a valley there lived a starving tigress, who had just given birth to seven cubs when heaven sent down snow; the mother tigress, holding her own cubs close, had gone three full days without finding food, and, fearing her cubs would freeze to death, guarded them through the ceaseless falling snow, starving alongside them. Mother and cubs alike, weakened by hunger, were near death — and the mother, driven by her own desperate hunger, was about to devour her own cubs instead.

The sages nearby said: who could give up their own body to save them? The prince said: excellent — my own long-held wish is at last fulfilled. He went to the edge of the cliff, and, looking down, saw the mother tigress, her own cubs buried beneath the snow, and a great compassion arose in him. Standing still atop the mountain, he entered meditative absorption, and, in that very moment, attained the pure acceptance of the non-arising of all phenomena, perceiving directly the events of countless past kalpas, and of the future as well.

He returned and told his own teacher and five hundred fellow students: I now intend to give up my own body — I ask each of you to rejoice with me in this. His teacher said: you have studied the path only a short while, your own understanding not yet broad — why do you suddenly resolve to give up this body you hold so dear? The prince answered: I made a vow long ago that I would give up my own body a thousand times; I have already given it up nine hundred and ninety-nine times before this — today's gift shall complete the full thousand, and it is for this reason that I give it now. I ask my teacher to rejoice with me in this. His teacher said: your own resolve is lofty and sublime indeed — you shall surely attain the path before the rest of us; do not think yourself abandoned in this.

The prince took his leave of his teacher and departed; his teacher, together with the five hundred sages, their own eyes filled with tears, accompanied the prince to the edge of the mountain cliff. There was, at that time, an elder named Fùlán, who, together with five hundred men and women of his own household, was carrying offerings up the mountain; seeing the prince about to give up his own body, he too was moved to grief and tears, and followed the prince to the cliff's edge as well.

The prince, before the assembled crowd, made this great vow: I now give up my own body to save the lives of these beings — may whatever merit comes of this swiftly bring me to enlightenment, that I might attain a body of diamond, ever joyful, ever true, ever pure, the unconditioned Dharma-body itself, and deliver those not yet delivered, free those not yet freed, and bring peace to those not yet at peace. This present body of mine is impermanent, filled with suffering and every poison; this body is impure, its nine orifices constantly overflowing, bitten and stung by the four great venomous serpents of the elements, pursued and cut by the five drawn-blade thieves of the senses. Such a body as this, ungrateful even for every delicacy, fine food, and sensory pleasure lavished upon it, brings no true benefit in return once its own life ends, only a fall into hell to suffer measureless pain. A body such as this deserves only to be made to suffer — it should never be indulged with further pleasure.

He then made this further vow: I now give my own flesh and blood to save this starving tiger; whatever relic-bones remain of me, my own parents shall, in time, raise a stūpa over them, that any being suffering bodily illness from past karmic causes, unhealed by medicine, needle, or moxa, who comes to that very stūpa and makes offering there with a sincere heart, might, according to the severity of their own illness, be cured within no more than a hundred days. And, should this vow be true and not false, may the devas rain down fragrant flowers in answer — and, at once, mandārava flowers rained down, and the earth shook.

The prince then removed his own deerskin robe, wrapped it around his head, and threw himself down before the tiger. The mother tigress, obtaining the bodhisattva's own flesh to eat, and her cubs alike, were saved.

The people gathered at the cliff's edge, looking down, saw the prince's own bones and flesh scattered in disarray, devoured by the tiger, and cried out in grief, their voices shaking the whole mountain — some beat their own chests and threw themselves to the ground, rolling in anguish; some sat in meditation; some bowed their heads in repentance. The devas of the Pure Abodes, together with Śakra, the Four Heavenly Kings, the devas of sun and moon, and countless other devas, all gave rise to the resolve for unsurpassed enlightenment, and, performing music, burning incense, and scattering flowers, made offering to the prince, proclaiming: excellent, great being Mahāsattva — before long, you shall surely sit upon the very seat of enlightenment. The five hundred sages all gave rise to the resolve for the unsurpassed, true path, and their own great teacher attained the acceptance of non-arising.

The prince's own mother, sending food to him, found only his own clothing, umbrella, bowl, staff, and water-vessel remaining in his stone dwelling. She asked the sages everywhere, and found them all weeping together in small groups. Coming to the great teacher's own place, she found him too sitting with his hand propped against his own cheek, tears filling his eyes, groaning — and, though she asked on every side, none would answer her at all. The messenger, growing afraid, offered food to the assembled sages, and fled back to report the whole matter to the prince's mother.

She said: alas — my own son is dead! — and, beating her own chest, crying out, rushed to tell the king. The king, hearing this, fell into a daze; his ministers counseled him: the prince is upon the mountain — I ask the king to rest a moment first. But the king, together with his consort, the princess, the attendant women, ministers, and officials, all rushed up the mountain at once.

The elder Fùlán came to meet them, and told the king: yesterday, the prince threw himself down from the cliff, to feed the tiger with his own flesh — now only his bones remain, scattered upon the ground. They went together to where his remains lay; the king, his consort, the princess, attendant women, ministers, and officials all cried out in grief, shaking the whole valley. The king and his consort threw themselves upon their son's own remains, their hearts breaking, senseless with grief. The princess came forward, and, cradling the prince's own head, arranging his hair, said: I would rather my own body were ground to dust than see my husband perish so suddenly as this.

The ministers then told the king: the prince made this offering, vowing to deliver all beings — he was not seized by the demon of impermanent death against his own will. Before his remains decay, we should now make proper offering. They gathered his own bones, and, carrying them out from the valley's mouth, piled sandalwood incense-wood and fragrant oil upon level ground, and cremated them there, gathering the relics and raising a stūpa of the seven treasures over them.

That prince of that time was myself; that king, his father, is my own father Śuddhodana now; that mother was my own mother Māyā; that princess is Gopī now; the one who performed the cremation was Ānanda; and the great teacher of the sages upon the mountain was Maitreya (Source: Sūtra of the Bodhisattva Who Gave His Own Body to Feed a Starving Tigress).

Long ago, in Jambudvīpa, there was a king named Brahmadeva, whose crown prince was named Tánmógǎn, who held a deep love for the true Dharma. Śakra, transforming himself into a brahmin, said: I am able to teach the Dharma. The prince, taking hold of his own feet in reverence, asked to hear it. The brahmin said: I have studied this a long time — how could you expect simply to hear it, just like that? Only if you can, without regard for your own body, life, wife, or children, enter a great pit of fire, as an offering to me, shall I then give you this teaching.

The prince agreed to everything exactly as the brahmin said, and had a great pit of fire prepared. The king, his consort, and the attendant women went to the palace to reason with the brahmin, offering their own kingdom, city, and even the prince's own wife and children as servants instead, begging that the prince not be made to throw himself into this fire. The brahmin said: I do not force him at all — this is entirely his own wish; but, should he not do this, I shall not teach him.

The king proclaimed throughout the kingdom that, in seven days, the prince would burn his own body, and that whoever wished to witness it should come early on that day. The whole kingdom, high and low alike, gathered at once, begging and pleading with him as before. The prince said to the assembled crowd: across the long span of birth and death, I have lost this body countless times already — among humans, through greed, killing one another; in heaven, when my own lifespan ended, losing every pleasure to grief and pain; in hell, burned, boiled, sliced, and flayed, upon rivers of ash and forests of blades, a pain reaching to the very marrow; among hungry ghosts, pierced through by a hundred poisons; and, as an animal, my own body serving as food for the mouths of others, or eating grass while bearing heavy loads. I have borne all these sufferings in vain, gaining nothing from this body or life, never once giving rise to a wholesome heart for the sake of the Dharma. Now, at last, I give up this foul, impure form, to seek what is truly pure and excellent. Why, then, would you wish to see me turn back now? Once I attain the buddha's own path, I shall bestow upon you the fivefold Dharma-body itself.

The prince then stood upon the edge of the fire pit. The brahmin spoke this verse:

"Practice constantly a heart of loving-kindness, / and cast away every thought of anger and harm. / Hold great compassion for all beings, / and let tears of sorrow fall for their own sake. / Cultivate a mind of great joy, / rejoicing equally in whatever others attain. / Uphold and protect all beings with the resolve for the path — / only this is the true conduct of a bodhisattva."

The prince, hearing this, was about to leap into the fire, when Śakra, as the Brahmā-king, seized one of his own hands, and objected: every living creature within Jambudvīpa depends upon the prince's own kindness for its own place in this world — should you now throw yourself into the fire, the whole world would lose its own father; why would you abandon everyone, alone, in this way? The prince answered: do not obstruct my own resolve for the unsurpassed path — and threw his own body into the fire pit.

Heaven and earth shook greatly; the devas in the open sky all cried out together, their tears falling like heavy rain. At that moment, the raging fire pit transformed into a pond of lotus flowers, and the prince sat upon a lotus throne, the devas raining down flowers until they reached his own knees.

That King Brahmadeva is my own father Śuddhodana now; that mother is my own mother Māyā now; and that prince is the World-Honored One himself (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 1).

In the age of Vipaśyin Buddha, the king of Vārāṇasī, wise and benevolent, had no son of his own; he served a mountain deity for twelve years, praying without ever growing slack. His chief consort at last bore him a son, gentle by nature, never given to anger, every mark of a fine person complete. Summoning his ministers and diviners to determine the child's own fortune, he named him Patience. As the boy grew, he delighted in giving generously, holding compassion equally for all beings.

Six ministers of that kingdom, treacherous, flattering, and unprincipled, were disliked by the people and harbored jealousy toward the prince. In time, the king fell gravely ill, his own life in danger, and Prince Patience asked his father's ministers: my father the king is in mortal danger — what shall we do now? The ministers said: a fine medicine is hard to obtain, and his life is not long left. The prince, overcome with grief, fell to the ground.

The wicked ministers then devised a scheme to remove the prince, and told him: the king's illness requires a medicine that cannot be obtained. The prince asked: what is this medicine? They answered: it requires the eyes and marrow of a person who has never once felt anger — only with this medicine could the king's own life be fully preserved. The prince said: I myself am such a person.

He then took leave of his own mother, and, gathering the lesser kings of the realm together, proclaimed: this body of mine shall now part from you all. He summoned a caṇḍāla to crush his own bones and draw out the marrow, and to gouge out his own two eyes; the ministers ground these together, and offered them to the great king, who, taking this medicine, was cured of his own illness at once.

He asked his ministers: this medicine has proven so wondrously effective in removing my own suffering — where did it come from? His ministers answered: this very medicine was provided by the prince himself. The king asked: where is he now? They answered: outside, his own body gravely injured, his life not long remaining.

The king, overcome with grief, wept, and went to his own son's side — but his life had already ended. His mother, in her own anguish, threw herself upon his remains: it is my own past transgression, deserving to be ground to dust, that has cost my own son his very life. They cremated him with ox-head sandalwood, and raised a stūpa of the seven treasures over his own remains (Source: Sūtra of the Great Skillful Means and the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness, fascicle 3).

Long ago, in Jambudvīpa, there was a king named Wisdom-Strength, who protected the Buddha's own teaching with deep sincerity. A certain monk was close kin to the king, honored by him and cherished by the people of the kingdom; the king never tired of seeing him.

This monk developed a grave, festering wound upon his own thigh, which no physician in the kingdom could heal. The king and his twenty thousand consorts were all filled with sorrow over this. The king, sleeping one night, dreamed that a deva came to him and said: should you wish to heal this monk, you must obtain fresh human blood and flesh for him to eat and drink — only this will cure him.

The king, waking, was troubled, thinking: this monk's illness is so grave that it requires such a remedy — and asked his ministers where fresh human blood and flesh might be obtained.

At that time, the king's own crown prince, named Wisdom-Rest, said to the king: do not trouble yourself, my king — human blood and flesh are the very cheapest of things; though the people of this world hold them dear, the path itself makes no such distinction.

The king said: very good. The prince said nothing further, but returned to his own chamber, took up a knife, cut flesh from his own thigh, and, together with the blood, sent it to the monk. The monk, receiving it, was cured of his wound at once, his body restored to ease. The king, hearing that the monk had been healed, was overjoyed beyond measure — and the prince's own wound was healed spontaneously as well. The king gave the whole kingdom's own treasury to the prince in reward.

That sincere and devoted monk of that time was the Buddha Dīpaṃkara; that King Wisdom-Strength was Maitreya; and that Prince Wisdom-Rest was myself (Source: Sūtra of the Bodhisattva Moon-Bright's Samādhi).

There was a Prince Moonlight, who, out on an excursion, was stopped by a man afflicted with leprosy, who called out to his carriage: my own body suffers such grave illness, such bitter pain — while you, prince, take your own ease and pleasure alone? I beg your great compassion to save and heal me.

The prince, hearing this, asked his own physicians, who told him: this requires the blood and marrow of a person who, from birth to the present, has never once felt anger, applied and drunk — only this can cure it. The prince thought to himself: even were such a person to exist, who, clinging to their own life, would ever give this up? There is nowhere to obtain it — except from my own body.

He then summoned a caṇḍāla, and had his own flesh removed, his bones broken, and the marrow drawn out, to be applied to the afflicted man, and his own blood given to him to drink. In giving in this way — as in giving even his own wife and children — he gave without the slightest regret, as though discarding mere grass or wood, understanding that whatever is given arises only through causes and conditions, and, seeking its own true substance, finding nothing at all to be found there — all of it utterly pure, exactly as the mark of nirvāṇa itself. And, in this way, he attained the acceptance of the non-arising of all phenomena. This is what is meant by fulfilling the perfection of giving through the very body bound up in karmic action and birth (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 12).

In the age of the semblance Dharma of Vipaśyin Buddha, the king of Vārāṇasī was named Luóshé, who had three sons, each ruling a lesser kingdom of his own. The king himself was wise and clear-minded, governing by the true Dharma, never wronging his own people; through his own virtue and power, rain fell in its proper season, and the five grains flourished.

The king had a trusted minister named Luóhóuluó (a figure sharing his name only with, and entirely unrelated to, the Buddha's own son Rāhula), who harbored treacherous intent, and suddenly raised four divisions of troops to attack Vārāṇasī, taking the great king's own life, and going on to attack and kill the first and second princes in turn, before moving against the third.

This third prince was of fine, dignified form, gentle in nature and skilled in speech, always smiling, his every word bringing benefit and never wounding another's feelings; he governed his own people by the true Dharma, his land rich and prosperous, his kingdom's own resources abundant, praised in every direction — even the devas of the open sky and every spirit revered and loved him.

This prince had a son, named Xūchǎntí, clever, compassionate, and delighting in generosity, his own body the color of gold, his seven points level and full, every mark of a fine person complete; he was only seven years old, and his father cherished him, never letting him from his own heart for a moment.

The palace's own guardian deity told the king: Luóhóuluó, in his treachery, plots to seize the throne and kill you, my king — he has already raised an army, and has caught and killed your own two elder brothers; his own troops shall soon arrive here as well.

The king, hearing this, was overcome with grief and distress beyond his own control, his heart breaking, and fell to the ground, and only after a long while did he recover. He asked, in a faint voice, toward the open air: who are you? — hearing only the voice, seeing no form at all — is what you have just told me truly so? He was answered: I am the palace's own guardian deity; because you, my king, have been wise, upright, and never wronged your own people, I tell you this — you should flee at once, for the danger is not far off.

The king considered fleeing to a neighboring kingdom, by one of two roads — one a seven-day journey, the other fourteen days. He had seven days' worth of provisions for a single person prepared, and, going into the palace, called for Xūchǎntí, and held him upon his own knee. The queen, coming before him, asked: my king, you seem to bear some fear. The king said: this is not something you need know. The queen answered: I am to you as a bird's own two wings — how could you say this does not concern me as well? The king then told her everything, and, taking up the prince, set out upon the road at once, his wife following behind.

In their own haste and confusion, they mistakenly took the fourteen-day road instead — a road steep and difficult, with neither water nor plant life along it. After several days' travel, the provisions for all three of them were exhausted, with the road still far from its end. The king and queen cried out in anguish: how strange, how bitter this is — from birth until now, we have never once heard of such suffering as this; how is it that we ourselves must now endure it? Overcome with self-reproach, driven by hunger and thirst, their own lives hanging by a breath, the king thought of a plan: rather than let all three of us die together, better to kill my wife, and let the child and myself survive.

Xūchǎntí, seeing his father's own strange expression, came forward, took his father's hand, and asked: what do you intend to do? His father, tears filling his eyes, told him in a faint voice: I intend to kill your own mother, and take her flesh and blood to sustain your own life. Xūchǎntí, weeping, said to his father: where has there ever been a child who feeds upon his own mother's flesh? Should I not eat it, both mother and child would die together regardless — I beg you, kill me instead, and save my father and mother's own lives with it.

The king, hearing his son's own words, fell into a faint, and told him in a faint voice: you are as dear to me as my own eyes — where has there ever been a person who gouges out their own eyes to eat them? I would rather die myself than ever kill my own child and eat his flesh. Xūchǎntí said further: should you kill me outright, my own blood and flesh would spoil and rot before many days had passed — I ask instead for a single boon; to refuse it would not be the conduct of loving parents. The king then told his son: I shall not refuse your wish.

Xūchǎntí said: I ask only that, each day, three catties of flesh be cut from my own body — two portions offered to my father and mother, and one portion eaten by myself, to sustain my own life in turn. His parents, weeping, agreed to this.

They continued along the road in this way for two more days, the prince's own flesh gradually diminishing, until only his limbs, joints, sinews, and bones remained connected, his own remaining life not yet ended. His parents, holding him, cried out in anguish: we have acted without any true form of parents at all, feeding wrongly upon your own flesh, causing you such bitter pain — the road ahead is still so far, and our destination not yet reached, while your own flesh is now exhausted; let us now die together, and gather our own remains in a single place.

Xūchǎntí, in a faint voice, remonstrated with them: having already eaten of my own flesh to come this far along the road, my father and mother should not now act as ordinary people would — dying together in one place out of mere pity, refusing to go on. You may still cut clean flesh from between my own remaining joints, to sustain yourselves, and reach your own destination. His parents, following his own words, ate, and, this done, cried out and parted from him.

Xūchǎntí rose and stood, watching his parents go; his parents, weeping bitterly, continued along the road, until, at a distance, Xūchǎntí could see them no more. The prince, longing for his parents, his own eyes never leaving them until they vanished from sight, at last fell to the ground after a long while, his own body's fresh blood and flesh giving off a fragrance that reached the ten directions.

Mosquitoes and gnats, drawn by the scent of blood and flesh, swarmed upon his own body, feeding on him everywhere, a pain too severe for words — yet, his own remaining life not yet ended, he raised his voice and made this vow: may whatever evil karma remains from my own past lives be entirely exhausted through this very act; from this day forward, I shall never again commit such wrong. I have now offered this body of mine to sustain my own parents — may they forever receive elevenfold blessing in return. And may whatever blood and flesh remains, given now to these mosquitoes and gnats, satisfy them fully as well.

As he made this vow, the earth shook in six ways; the sun lost its own radiance, and birds and beasts scattered in flight; the great ocean's waves surged, and Mount Sumeru itself seemed to rise and sink. The devas of the six heavens of desire, all struck with terror, descended to Jambudvīpa, transforming themselves into lions, tigers, and wolves, baring their teeth, roaring, leaping and pouncing as though to seize and devour him.

Xūchǎntí, seeing these beasts display such fearsome power, said to them in a faint voice: if you wish to devour me, take and eat as you please — why show such terror at all? At this, Śakra, king of the devas, revealed his own true heavenly form; the prince, seeing him, was overjoyed beyond measure.

Śakra then asked the prince: you have given up what is hardest of all to give — through such merit as this, do you wish to be reborn in heaven, as a Māra king, or a Brahmā king? The prince answered: I wish only to attain unsurpassed enlightenment. Śakra said: these are empty words — who could possibly believe you? The prince then made this vow: if I have spoken falsely, may my own wounds never heal, from now until the end; but if this is not so, may I be restored whole. At once, his own blood turned to milk, and his body was restored, whole and dignified, more so than ever before.

Śakra, king of the devas, bowed his own head at the prince's feet, and exclaimed: excellent — I myself am not your equal. Should you, through such vigorous diligence, attain enlightenment, I ask only that you deliver me first of all. Śakra then vanished at once into the open sky.

The king and queen, meanwhile, reached the neighboring kingdom; its own king, hearing of their arrival, came out to welcome them from afar, and, learning the whole matter, provided for their every need most graciously. Moved by the prince's own filial devotion and compassion, this neighboring king raised his own four divisions of troops, and gave them to the exiled king, to attack Luóhóuluó and reclaim his own throne.

Returning along the very road where they had parted from the prince, meaning first to gather his own remains, they looked ahead, weeping — and, drawing closer, saw the prince's own body restored whole. They rushed forward and embraced him, overcome with mingled grief and joy. Xūchǎntí then told his parents the whole matter in full; they rejoiced, and, together, rode a great elephant back to their own kingdom.

Through the prince's own deep merit, the kingdom was reclaimed, and he was installed as its own great king.

That king, his father, is King Śuddhodana now; that mother is Queen Māyā now; Xūchǎntí is the Buddha himself now; and Śakra, king of the devas, is Ājñāta-Kauṇḍinya now (Source: Sūtra of the Great Skillful Means and the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness, fascicle 1).

Long ago there was a king of the country of Yèbō named Shīsuí, whose crown prince was named Sudāna. This prince held the four boundless states of mind, protecting all beings equally, his own speech never harming anyone; he constantly vowed to give in charity, delivering all beings, that he might receive boundless blessing in every life to come. The foolish do not perceive the very changes of impermanence, believing what they have can be preserved forever; the wise understand that wealth belongs, in truth, to five other parties besides its own holder. Whoever came seeking clothing, food, gold, silver, rare treasure, carriages, horses, land, or dwelling, the prince refused no request at all, and his own renown spread across the four seas, praised everywhere.

The prince's own father possessed a white elephant, of such fierce and martial power that it alone could defeat sixty hostile kingdoms in battle, prevailing whenever it fought. The kings of these rival lands conspired together, and sent eight brahmins to beg for this white elephant. The prince, delighted, asked what they sought. They answered: we wish to beg the white elephant that walks upon lotus flowers, named Rājavāhana. The prince said: very well — and, whatever gold, silver, or treasure you might also wish for, ask freely.

He commanded his own attendants to swiftly outfit the white elephant with a saddle and bridle of gold and silver; holding the elephant's own bridle in his left hand and a golden vase in his right, he washed the brahmins' hands himself, and, with joyful compassion, gave them the elephant. The brahmins, overjoyed, pronounced a blessing, and rode off upon the elephant at once.

The kingdom's own chief minister and all his hundred officials were struck with dismay, saying together: this elephant's own fierce strength secured victory in every battle — now that it has been given away to a rival kingdom, on what shall we now rely? They reported this fully to the king, who, hearing it, remained silent and sorrowful for a long while, and said: the prince loves the Buddha's own path, relieving the poor and needy through compassionate care, in a manner that cannot be restrained — yet, were I to imprison him for this, that too would be a wrongful, unjust act.

His hundred officials said together: instruction and correction alone would not go amiss here — yet imprisonment itself would be an act of cruelty, one we would not dare propose. Let him instead be exiled from the kingdom, and placed in the open wilderness, that, over ten years, he might come to feel true remorse himself — this is our own wish. The king then sent an envoy, to tell the prince: the elephant is a treasure of the state — how could you give it away to an enemy? Though I cannot bear to punish you further, you must leave the kingdom at once.

The envoy delivered this message exactly as commanded. The prince answered: I would not dare defy the king's own command — I ask only to spend seven more days giving from my own private wealth, without touching the state's own treasury. The envoy reported this, and the king granted it. The prince, delighted, gave lavishly to the poor and needy, proclaiming that all should come quickly and take whatever they wished; by the end of the seven days, the poor had all become wealthy.

The prince's own wife was named Madrī, originally the daughter of a king herself, of matchless beauty and grace throughout the whole kingdom, adorned from head to foot in the seven treasures. He told her: rise, and hear what I must say — the great king has exiled me to Mount Daṇḍaka, for a term of twelve years; do you understand this? His wife, startled, looked at the prince, and, weeping, said: for what crime have you been driven out, abandoning the kingdom's own glory and honor, to dwell instead in the deep mountains? He answered: it is because I gave away the kingdom's own famous elephant to a rival, hostile king, which so angered my ministers that they have driven me out for it.

His wife then made this vow: may the kingdom remain rich and prosperous, its king, ministers, and countless people wealthy and long-lived without end — yet I myself shall set my own resolve upon the mountains and marshes, and vow to accompany my husband there.

The prince said: those mountains and marshes are a place of terror — tigers, wolves, and harmful beasts, difficult even to survive among; there are, besides, venomous insects, goblins, and malicious spirits, thunder and lightning, wind, rain, and fog, all truly to be feared; the cold and heat there are extreme, the trees offer no true shelter, and brambles and rubble are unfit for bare feet to tread upon. You are the daughter of a king, born to glory and raised within a palace, your own clothing always fine and soft, your food always delicious, your own bed hung with curtains and filled with pleasant music — while now, dwelling in the mountains and marshes, you would lie upon mere straw, and eat only fruit and wild vegetables, hardships no ordinary person could endure — how could you possibly bear it?

His wife answered: what benefit is there, to myself, in fine silk, jeweled curtains, and delicious food, if it means being parted from the prince in life? A king is known by his own banner; fire is known by its own smoke; a woman is known by her own husband. I rely upon the prince exactly as I would rely upon my own parents. When the prince, still in the kingdom, gave in charity to all in every direction, I shared equally in that same vow — how, then, could it be the way of true benevolence for me to remain behind in comfort now, while he alone crosses such danger? Should some beggar come while I am absent, and my husband's own heart be moved to give even without my own presence, he would surely die of grief over it — of this I have no doubt at all.

The prince said: should someone from a distant land come begging for my own wife and children, I would hold no reluctance in giving them either — should you, out of mere attachment and longing, then obstruct this very path of giving, you would sever and ruin the great undertaking I have vowed to fulfill. His wife said: the prince's own giving is a rare thing in this world — you must carry your own vast vow through to the end, without ever growing weary of it. In a hundred thousand myriad ages, no one has ever undertaken such a weighty task for the Buddha's own sake as you — I would not dare obstruct it. The prince said: excellent.

He then took his wife and children to bid farewell to his own mother, bowing his head to the ground, and said, in sorrow: I beg you to set aside such heavy grief, and preserve your own precious health. The affairs of state are many and pressing — offer your own counsel often, with compassion, and never act willfully, lest you wrong the heavenly people yourself. One must endure even what seems unendurable.

His mother said: before I had a son, I made vows and prayers for an heir; through the days of my own pregnancy, I was like a tree bearing a flower, awaiting the day of its fruit. Heaven did not deny my own wish, and gave me a son — and now, having raised him to maturity, I must be parted from him in life itself. The consorts and concubines no longer show me the same respect.

The prince, his wife, and children bowed and withdrew; throughout the whole palace, high and low alike, there was not one who did not choke back tears. Going out, he took his own sorrowful leave of the hundred officials, and departed the city together with his family. Everyone whispered among themselves: the prince is the very sacred spirit of this kingdom, honored above every treasure — what could his own parents have been thinking, to drive him out so? The prince, sitting outside the city walls, thanked all those who had come to see him off, and sent them back to their own homes. The countless people bowed and grieved together, some throwing themselves about and crying out to heaven, their voices shaking the whole kingdom.

Having traveled far from the kingdom, the prince sat beneath a tree. A brahmin came from afar, begging for his own fine clothing and his wife and children's own pearls and jewels; he gave all of it away freely, and had his wife and children mount the carriage, taking the reins himself and setting out. No sooner had they set out than another brahmin came, begging for the horses; he gave the horses away as well, and pulled the carriage himself between the shafts, continuing on. Yet another brahmin came, begging for the carriage itself; he gave that away too. The prince's own carriage, horses, clothing, and every treasured possession were now entirely exhausted, with nothing left at all.

He had his wife carry their infant daughter, while he himself carried their son, and, after twenty-one days, they arrived at last in the mountains. The prince saw there thick forests, flowing springs of sweet water, and abundant fine fruit, with ducks, geese, and mandarin ducks playing among them. The prince told his wife: the trees here reach to the very sky, hardly broken or damaged at all; the birds sing mournfully, and fruit from the springs is abundant — enough to sustain us, that we might devote ourselves entirely to the path.

The ascetics dwelling in these mountains all held firmly to their own discipline, delighting in learning; there was one ascetic, named Accuta, who had dwelt in these mountains a long time, of profound and sublime virtue. The prince, with his wife and children, went to him, and, bowing his head, said: I have brought my wife and children here to study the path — I ask your own great compassion to guide and complete my own resolve. The ascetic taught them.

The prince then built a hut of brushwood and grass, bound up his own hair, wore rough cloth, and lived on fruit and spring water. His son was named Jāli, wearing simple grass garments, following his father in and out; his daughter was named Kaṇhājinā, wearing deerskin, following her mother in and out. On their very first night in the mountains, heaven caused the springs to swell further, and medicinal trees to grow anew.

There later lived a poor, aged brahmin named Jūjaka, whose own wife, young and beautiful, went one day to draw water, carrying her jar. Along the road, some young men blocked her path and taunted her: are you so poor that you covet that old man's own wealth enough to return home to him? That old man studies the path, hoping to accomplish something in this single life — but is he not simply foolish and stubborn, and is it truly his wealth you covet? His face is ugly and dark, his nose bent like an owl's beak, his body twisted and crooked, his face wrinkled, his lips too wide, his speech halting and impaired, his two eyes a sickly blue, resembling nothing so much as a ghost — every part of his body repugnant, whom would he not disgust? Do you feel no shame or revulsion, being married to such a household?

The wife, weeping, went on her way. The old man's own hair and beard were entirely white, as though frost had settled upon a tree; from morning to evening, he had not yet died, and there was nothing to be done about it. She returned and told her husband the whole matter, saying: unless I have some servant of my own, I shall leave you. Her husband said: I am poor — by what means could I possibly obtain a servant so suddenly? His wife said: I have heard that Sudāna, of vast compassion, delivering all beings, has been exiled to dwell in the mountains, and that he has two children — should you beg them of him, he would surely give them to you.

His wife having spoken of this repeatedly, and a wife's own affection being hard to refuse, he followed her words, and set out along the road, where he encountered a hunter. This hunter, already knowing the reason for the prince's own exile, angrily reviled him: I shall cut off your own head! — mistaking him for someone sent by the kingdom to move the prince. Jūjaka, terrified, said: the king and his ministers have sent me to summon the prince back to the kingdom, to be made king once more. The hunter answered: excellent — and gladly showed him the way.

Arriving at last, he saw the small hut; the prince, too, had already seen him approaching. The two children, seeing him, felt dread in their own hearts, and the brother and sister said to each other: our own father has always given freely, and now this man has come from so far away — his wealth already exhausted, with nothing left to give, he shall surely give the two of us away instead. Taking each other's hands, they fled together; their mother had once dug a hidden pit nearby, large enough to hold a person, and the two children hid within it, covering themselves with brushwood, warning each other: should father call, do not answer.

The prince greeted the visitor, saying: you have traveled far, and must be weary. Jūjaka answered: I have come from so far that my whole body aches, and I am greatly hungry and thirsty besides. The prince offered him fruit juice. Jūjaka said: I have now come, in my own destitution, hoping to extend what little life remains to me. The prince, moved with compassion, said: my own wealth is already exhausted — I have nothing left to regret giving away.

Jūjaka said: you might give me your two children, to support me in my own old age. The prince answered: my own heart holds no refusal in this. The prince called for his children; the brother and sister, in their own fear, said to each other: our father is calling for us — he shall surely give us to this ghost-like man; if we disobey his call, we should not answer.

The prince, knowing they were hidden in the pit, cleared away the brushwood, and found them there. The children came out, and, clinging to their father, trembling and weeping, said: this is truly a ghost, not a mere brahmin at all! We have seen many brahmins before, yet none with such an appearance as this — do not let us become food for this ghost. Why has our mother, gone to gather fruit, not yet returned? We shall surely die today, devoured by this ghost. When our mother returns and searches for us, as a cow searches for her own calf, she shall run about wildly in grief — our father will surely come to regret this.

The prince said: throughout my own life of giving, I have never once felt even the slightest regret — I have already promised you to him; do not now disobey. Jūjaka said: I am old and weak — should the children try to flee to their own mother, you, prince, in your great generosity, should bind them and hand them over to me. The prince took hold of the children, and had Jūjaka bind them, drawing the rope taut himself.

The two children threw themselves to the ground before their father, crying out in anguish, calling for their mother: devas of heaven, spirits of earth, gods of the mountains and trees, in your own compassion tell our mother — her two children have been given away; let her come and see us just once more. Their grief moved heaven and earth alike, and the mountain spirits echoed with a sound like rolling thunder.

Their mother, at that moment gathering fruit, felt a heaviness in her own heart, and, looking up at the sky, saw no sign of cloud or rain — yet her right eye twitched, her left foot itched, and milk flowed spontaneously from both her own breasts. She thought to herself: this is a very strange omen — I must return and see my own children. Abandoning the fruit she had gathered, she hurried back, frantic, as though gone mad.

Śakra, reflecting, thought: the bodhisattva's own resolve is now at its height, on the verge of fulfilling this great undertaking — should his wife arrive in time, she might yet break his own lofty resolve. He transformed himself into a lion, crouching directly in her path. The wife said: you are king among the wild beasts; I am the daughter of a king among men, and we both now dwell upon this same mountain — I have two children, both still very young, who have had nothing to eat since morning, and now wait anxiously for my return. The lion moved aside, and she was able to continue on her way.

Turning back into her path once more, Śakra transformed into a white wolf; she spoke to it as before, and the wolf too moved aside. He then transformed into a tiger, reckoning that Jūjaka must, by now, have traveled far enough away — and only then did he withdraw entirely.

The wife, seeing the prince sitting alone, was struck with dread: where have my own children gone, that he sits here by himself? — for the children would always come running to greet her return, leaping and laughing, calling out, mother is home! Yet now she saw only their scattered toys — clay elephants, clay oxen, clay horses, clay pigs, and other cleverly made little things, strewn across the ground. Seeing this, her heart was moved to such distress that she nearly went mad herself: could they not have been swallowed up by some tiger, wolf, evil spirit, or bandit? Release me from this anguish at once, or I shall surely die.

The prince, after a long silence, said: a brahmin came, begging for our two children, saying that his own remaining years were few, and that he wished to sustain himself through them — and I have given them to him. His wife, hearing this, cried out and fell to the ground, writhing in grief, weeping, and said: it is exactly as I dreamed one night — I dreamed of an old, poor brahmin, who cut off both my own breasts and carried them away in haste — this was surely an omen of this very day. Her anguished cries shook the whole mountain.

The prince, seeing his wife's own grief grow only more severe, said to her: I had always feared that your own deep filial devotion and reverence, your refusal of no request, was already made clear as a solemn vow between us — yet now your own grief threatens to disturb my own resolve. His wife said: the prince's own quest for the path — how great indeed is its own hardship!

Śakra and the other devas then discussed together: the prince's own path of giving is vast, without limit — let us test him by seeking his own wife as well. Śakra transformed himself into a brahmin, and said: you, sir, hold the very benevolence of heaven and earth themselves, delivering all beings universally, giving without ever refusing — it is for this that I have come, with my heart set upon you. Your own wife, too, is virtuous, chaste, and of such renowned character that her own fame reaches far — it is for this that I have come to beg her of you as well. The prince answered: very good.

Heaven and earth shook suddenly and greatly, and devas, humans, ghosts, and spirits alike all praised this as excellent. The brahmin then said: I am, in truth, the lord of the devas, not an ordinary mortal at all — I have come to test you. Your own devotion to the Buddha's own wisdom is a model without equal. What wish do you hold now? Ask freely, and it shall be granted.

The prince said: I wish to obtain great wealth, that I might constantly delight in giving without limit; and I wish, too, that my own father the king, and the ministers and people of my own kingdom, might one day see me again. Śakra said: excellent — and, in due time, this shall come to pass — and vanished from sight.

Jūjaka, delighted at having obtained the children, felt no fatigue at all as he led the two of them along, as though he had acquired servants of great value. These children, grandchildren of a king, once free and glorious, were now bound with rope by the very man who had taken them; the bindings chafed and wounded them wherever they touched, and, crying out for their own mother, they were driven forward with a whip, blood staining the ground red beneath them.

The deities of that place, moved with compassion, loosened their bonds and healed their wounds, caused sweet fruit to grow for them, and made the ground soft beneath their feet. The brother and sister, picking this fruit and sharing it with one another, said: sweet as the fruit in our own garden at home; the ground is as soft as the carpets by our father's own throne. Supporting each other, they looked up to heaven and called for their mother, tears streaming down, until they reached Jūjaka's own home, where he told his wife, laughing with joy: I have obtained two servants for you, to command as you wish. The wife, seeing the children, said: these are no fit servants at all — such fine, delicate children, their own hands and feet so graceful, unsuited to labor. Better to sell them, and buy proper servants with the proceeds instead.

Jūjaka then wished to travel to another kingdom to sell them, but the devas confused his own sense of direction, leading him instead back toward the children's own homeland. The people there, recognizing them, said together: these are the grandchildren of our own great king! — and reported this to the king at once.

The king summoned them into the palace; the whole court, high and low, could not help but weep at the sight. The king wished to embrace the two children, but they would not come to him. The king asked why. The children answered: we were once the king's own grandchildren, but are now lowly servants — how could we presume to sit upon the king's own knee?

The king asked Jūjaka how he had come to have these children, and was told the whole truth. The king asked: for how much were they sold? Before Jūjaka could answer, the boy spoke up himself: my own price was a thousand silver coins, and a hundred head each of cattle and oxen; my sister's own price was a thousand gold coins, and two hundred head each of cattle and oxen.

The king asked: why is the elder, the boy, valued so much less, and the younger, the girl, valued so much more? The boy answered: the prince, our own father, was both sage and benevolent, relied upon by all — and yet he was driven into exile regardless; it is for this that we know a son's own worth to be cheap. A common daughter, valued merely for her own beauty, may yet dwell deep within a palace; it is for this that we know a daughter's own worth to be dear.

The king said: even a child of eight years already speaks with the insight of a lofty scholar — how much more so his own father! The whole court, hearing this pointed remonstrance, could not help but grieve together. The king then paid Jūjaka exactly the sum named, and he withdrew.

The king held both grandchildren upon his own knee, and said: a moment ago you would not let me embrace you — why do you come to me so readily now? They answered: a moment ago we were mere servants; now we are the king's own grandchildren once more.

The king asked: how does your own father provide for himself, dwelling in the mountains? The children answered together: he lives on wild vegetables and fruit from the trees, sustaining himself in this way, taking his own daily pleasure among the birds and beasts, his heart free of grief.

The king sent an envoy to receive the prince. As the envoy traveled, the very trees of the mountain bent and swayed, as though performing gestures of respectful welcome, and a hundred birds cried out mournfully, moving all who heard them. The prince asked: what auspicious sign is this? His wife, lying upon the ground in grief, said: it must be that the king's own heart has softened, and envoys now come to receive us — the spirits themselves, aiding this good outcome, have brought about this very sign. (His wife, since the loss of her own children, had remained lying upon the ground in grief.) When the envoy arrived, she rose at last, and bowed to receive the king's own command.

The envoy said: the king and queen, having lost their own appetite, weeping constantly, their own health declining day by day, long only to see the prince again. The prince, looking about him, longing still for the mountain's own trees and flowing springs, wiped away his tears, and boarded the carriage. From the moment the envoy set out, the whole kingdom rejoiced; the roads were cleared and swept, canopies and curtains prepared in advance, incense burned, flowers scattered, music played, and banners raised. The whole kingdom rejoiced together, wishing him boundless long life.

The prince entered the city, bowed his head in apology for his own past fault, and inquired after his parents' health. The king then entrusted the entire royal treasury to the prince, urging him to give freely as he wished. The suffering people of neighboring kingdoms flocked to him as rivers flow to the sea; even those who had once borne old grudges against him came now to bow and declare themselves his own subjects, offering tribute one after another. Bandits themselves grew benevolent; thieves competed to give up their own weapons; and prisons, once full, stood empty and abandoned. All beings lived in lasting joy, and, throughout the ten directions, celebrated this goodness, accumulating merit without ceasing. Though he had first known such bitter suffering, he now became honored without limit.

The prince, at the end of his own life, was reborn in Tuṣita heaven, and, descending from that heaven, was reborn in the palace of King Śuddhodana — that prince is myself now.

That king, his father, is Ānanda now. That wife is Gopī now. That son is Rāhula now. That daughter is the mother of the arhat Zhùchí now. Śakra, king of the devas, is Maitreya now. That hunter is Yōutuóyē now. That ascetic Accuta is Mahākāśyapa now. And that brahmin who bought the children is Devadatta now. Such is the bodhisattva's own compassionate generosity (Source: Sūtra of Sudāna).

Long ago, in the country of Vaiśālī, a mango tree grew in the king's own garden, its branches and leaves thick and lush, its fruit possessed of an extraordinary color and fragrance; the king treasured it dearly, and only the most honored within the palace were permitted to eat of it.

There was, at that time, a brahmin, of great household wealth, unmatched throughout the kingdom, clever and widely learned, his own talent surpassing all others, whom the king had made his own minister. Once, at a meal the king had prepared, he gave this brahmin a single mango fruit. The brahmin, finding its fragrance extraordinary, asked: might there be a small cutting from this very mango tree that I could beg for myself? The king said: if you wish for a cutting, I shall give you one.

The brahmin planted it, watering it morning and evening; its own branches grew lush, and, after three years, it bore fruit, its own color and size just as fine as the king's own tree. The brahmin, overjoyed, thought to himself: my own wealth is beyond counting, no less than the king's own — only this mango did I lack, and now that I have it, I lack for nothing at all. He took and ate the fruit — yet found it bitter and astringent. Reflecting on this, he thought: it must simply be that the soil here lacks nourishment.

He then took milk, and fed it to a single cow, and, in turn, to a hundred cows, boiling it down each day into ghee, and watered the tree with this daily, until, the following year, the fruit at last grew sweet and delicious. Yet, beside the tree, a swollen knot appeared, as large as a clenched fist, growing larger with each passing month, until he feared it might hinder the tree's own fruit; he wished to cut it away, yet feared harming the tree itself, and so hesitated, undecided.

From this very knot, a branch grew, straight and well-formed, rising above the very crown of the tree, seven fathoms above the ground, from which further branches spread out, shaped like an upturned canopy, its own flowers and leaves even more lush than the tree's own trunk. The brahmin built a scaffold, and climbed up to look — and found, within this canopy of branches, a pool of water, clear and fragrant, filled with bright, fresh flowers. Parting the flowers to look beneath them, he found a baby girl within the pool itself.

The brahmin took her home, and raised her, naming her Āmrapālī ("Mango-Girl"). By the age of fifteen, her beauty was without equal throughout the whole world, her renown reaching distant kingdoms. Seven kings, at the very same time, came to the brahmin's own house, each seeking to marry Āmrapālī as his own consort. The brahmin, not knowing which to choose, built a high tower within his own garden, and placed Āmrapālī there, telling the assembled kings: this girl was not born of me at all — she came forth from the very top of this mango tree. Now that seven kings all seek her hand, should I give her to one, the other six would surely be angered — I dare not show favor to any one of you. This girl is now in the tower within my own garden; you kings must decide this matter among yourselves — whoever proves worthy may have her; I shall not decide this myself.

The seven kings contended over this without resolution. That very night, King Bimbisāra entered through a hidden drain, climbed the tower, and lodged there for the night, intending to leave the next morning. Āmrapālī said to him: great king, you have graciously honored me with your own presence — should a child result from this, being of royal lineage, to whom should the child belong? The king answered: should it be a boy, return him to me; should it be a girl, keep her yourself. The king then removed the golden signet ring from his own hand, and gave it to Āmrapālī, saying: let this serve as proof.

Going out, he told his own ministers: I have already obtained Āmrapālī, and spent the night with her. Bimbisāra's own soldiers all cried out, ten thousand years to the king — our king has already obtained Āmrapālī! The other six kings, hearing this, each returned to their own kingdoms.

Āmrapālī bore a son, who, at his very birth, held in his own hand a bag of surgical needles and medicine. The brahmin said: this is a king's own son, yet he grasps a physician's own instruments — he must surely become a king among physicians. He was named Jīvaka (the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra and other scriptures all call him Jīva; the Sūtra of Inviting the Monk Cūḍapanthaka calls him Jīvaka).

By the age of eight, his own cleverness and learning already surpassed his peers. Playing with the neighborhood children, he often held them in low regard; the other children, angered, reviled him: fatherless child, born of a mere courtesan — how dare you look down on us? Jīvaka, taken aback, said nothing in reply, but returned home and asked his mother: I observe that none of the other children are truly my equal, and yet they revile me, calling me fatherless — where, then, is my own father now?

His mother said: your father is King Bimbisāra himself. Jīvaka said: but King Bimbisāra dwells in Rājagṛha, five hundred li from here — how, then, did I come to be born here? He took up the very ring, and traveled to Rājagṛha, entering directly through the palace gate, and coming before the king himself, bowed, and, kneeling at length, said: I am your own son, born of Āmrapālī; only this year, at eight years old, have I learned that I am of the great king's own lineage — and so I have brought this signet ring as proof, and come from afar to return to my own family.

The king, seeing the ring's own markings, recalled the vow he had once made, and knew this to be his own son, and, moved with tender compassion, made him his own crown prince.

Two years passed, and King Ajātaśatru was born. Jīvaka then said to the king: at my own birth, I held a bag of needles and medicine in my hand — I am destined to become a king among physicians. Though you have made me your crown prince, this is not truly my own wish; now that you have a son of your own, he should rightly inherit your own honored succession — I ask instead to be permitted to study the art of medicine.

The king granted this, and commanded the finest physicians of the kingdom to teach him fully — yet Jīvaka spent his time in idle play, and never truly applied himself to study. His teachers reproached him, saying: the art of medicine is a lowly thing, unfit indeed for a crown prince's own noble study — yet the great king's own command cannot be disobeyed; days and months have already passed since we received this charge, and the prince has not yet accepted so much as half a single lesson — should the king ask us of your progress, how shall we possibly answer him?

Jīvaka answered: I was born already holding proof of my own medical destiny — how, then, could I possibly have abandoned royal glory and honor to seek this very art, only to grow slack in it now? It is simply that none of these teachers' own methods are truly worth studying. He then took up the classical herbal texts, prescriptions, and treatises on the pulse and channels, and questioned his teachers on every difficult point within them — and his teachers could not answer him at all, but instead bowed before him, saying: the prince's own sagely understanding is beyond what we ourselves can reach — and, on every doubtful point accumulated across generations, asked the prince himself to explain it, which he did; the physicians, delighted, bowed and followed his own teaching faithfully thereafter.

Jīvaka then began to heal the sick himself, curing every case he treated, his renown reaching distant kingdoms. Returning once through the palace gate, he encountered a child carrying firewood, and, looking at him, saw his own five internal organs and every vein clearly, as though through glass. Jīvaka thought to himself: the classical herbal texts speak of a tree called the "King of Medicine," whose own light shines from without to within — this child's own bundle of firewood must contain a branch of this very tree. He asked the child: for how much will you sell this? The child said: ten coins. Jīvaka paid the ten coins at once; the child set down his bundle of firewood — and, at once, the child's own body grew opaque again, his internal organs no longer visible at all.

Jīvaka, reflecting, did not know which piece within the bundle was the King of Medicine, and so untied it, piece by piece, laying each one upon the child's own belly in turn — yet none illuminated anything at all, until he had gone through the entire bundle, and only the very last, smallest twig revealed the child's own internal organs. Jīvaka, overjoyed, knew this small twig must indeed be the King of Medicine, and returned the rest of the firewood to the child, who went away delighted.

At that time, there was a fifteen-year-old daughter of a wealthy household in the kingdom who, on the very day she was to be married, suddenly died of a headache. Jīvaka, hearing of this, went to her own household, and asked: what illness did this girl always suffer from, that led to her early death? Her father answered: she had, since childhood, suffered mild headaches, which grew steadily worse day by day, until, this very morning, it finally took her life.

Jīvaka illuminated the girl's own head with the King of Medicine, and saw within it a mass of worms, large and small, bred together, numbering several hundred, which had bored through and devoured her own brain, causing her death once the brain was fully consumed. He then took a golden knife, and cut open her own head, drawing out every one of the worms, and sealing them within a jar; he applied three kinds of divine ointment to the wound — one to repair the damaged bone where the worms had fed, one to regenerate the brain itself, and one to heal the external wound from the knife. He told the girl's own father: keep her calm and undisturbed — take great care not to startle her — and, within seven days, she shall recover. I shall return again on that day.

No sooner had Jīvaka left than the girl's own mother wept anew, crying: my own daughter has died a second death now — how could anyone possibly live again after having their own head cut open and brain removed? Her father stopped her, saying: Jīvaka was born already holding needle and medicine; he has given up his own noble station to become a physician, solely for the sake of protecting and healing every person's own life — how could this heavenly king of physicians possibly speak falsely? He instructed us clearly: take great care not to startle her — and yet you now weep aloud, disturbing her instead; do you wish this child never to live again?

Her mother, hearing this, ceased her weeping, and cared for her daughter quietly. In stillness, seven days passed, and the girl at last exhaled and woke, as though rising from ordinary sleep, saying: I no longer feel any headache at all, my whole body at ease — who has cared for me, that I should recover so? Her father said: you had already died; it was the physician-king Jīvaka who came and cared for you, cutting open your head and removing the worms, that you might live again — and opened the jar to show her the worms himself.

The girl, seeing this, was struck with fresh terror, and, marveling at her own good fortune, said: Jīvaka is truly a divine being — how could I possibly repay such a debt? Before long, Jīvaka arrived; the girl, overjoyed, went out to greet him, bowed, and, kneeling, said: I wish to become your own servant for the rest of my life, to repay this debt of having been given life anew.

Jīvaka said: I am a physician, traveling about to treat the sick, dwelling nowhere for long — what use would I have for a servant? Should you truly wish to repay me, give me five hundred taels of gold instead — not for my own use, but to repay my own teacher's kindness; though my teachers had nothing further to teach me by the end, I still regard myself as having once been their student, and, receiving your own gold now, I shall give it to them. The girl then offered five hundred taels of gold, which Jīvaka accepted, and gave to his own teachers.

He then asked the king's leave to return briefly to visit his own mother, and went to Vaiśālī. There was, in that kingdom, the son of a wealthy household who loved to ride a wooden horse he had built, over seven feet tall; practicing upon it, he first managed to mount it, but later lost his own balance, fell to the ground, and died.

Jīvaka, hearing of this, went and illuminated him with the King of Medicine, and saw that his own liver had turned backward, twisted the wrong way, so that his breath had become blocked, causing his death. He then took his golden knife, cut open the boy's own belly, and, reaching in with his own hand, adjusted the liver, turning it back into its proper position, and applied three kinds of divine ointment — one to repair where his own hand had held the organ, one to restore the free flow of breath, and one to heal the external wound from the knife. He told the boy's own father: take care not to startle him — within three days, he shall recover.

The father, following this instruction, cared for him quietly for three days, and the boy exhaled and woke, as though rising from ordinary sleep, and sat up at once. Jīvaka soon arrived; the boy came out to greet him, and said: I wish to become your own servant for the rest of my life, in gratitude for the debt of life you have restored to me.

Jīvaka said: I am a physician, traveling about to treat the sick; every household whose sick I treat competes to serve me already — what use would I have for a servant? My own mother raised me through great hardship, and I have not yet properly repaid her — should you wish to thank me, give me five hundred taels of gold instead, to repay my own mother's kindness. He took this gold, and offered it to Āmrapālī, before returning to Rājagṛha.

Jīvaka, having saved these two lives, became renowned throughout the whole world, known to all.

There was, moreover, a great kingdom to the south, eight thousand li from Rājagṛha, to which Bimbisāra and every lesser kingdom were subject as vassals. That kingdom's own king had suffered from illness for years without recovery, constantly tormented by fits of rage, killing people merely for glancing at him sidelong. Should anyone raise their own eyes to look at him, he killed them; should they lower their head and not look up, he killed them too; should his own attendants walk too slowly, he killed them; too quickly, he killed them as well. His attendants did not know where to place their own hands and feet. Physicians who prepared medicine for him, should he suspect it poisoned, were killed as well. Beyond counting were the ministers, palace women, and physicians he had wrongly killed already. His illness only worsened day by day, its own poisonous energy attacking his heart, his breath labored and short, as though his body burned with fire.

Hearing of Jīvaka's own renown, he sent a letter, commanding King Bimbisāra to send Jīvaka to him. Jīvaka, hearing that this king had already killed so many physicians, was struck with great terror; Bimbisāra, too, pitying his own son's youth, feared he might be killed there, and, though he wished not to send him, feared reprisal if he refused. Father and son, watching over one another, spent their days and nights in anxious grief, until they went together to ask the Buddha about this.

The Buddha told Jīvaka: in a past life, you and I made a vow together, that we would both save and protect the illnesses of all beings under heaven — I to treat inner afflictions, you to treat outer ones. Now that I have attained buddhahood, it is exactly as our own original vow foretold, that we should meet again in this way. This king's own illness is grave, and he has summoned you from so far away — how could you fail to go? Go quickly, and attend to him; devise whatever skillful means are needed to ensure his illness is truly cured — he shall not kill you.

Jīvaka, receiving the Buddha's own majestic blessing, went to the king, examined his pulse, and illuminated him with the King of Medicine, seeing, within his five organs and hundred veins, blood and vital energy in violent turmoil, the poison of scorpions and serpents pervading his entire body.

Jīvaka told the king: your own illness can indeed be cured, and, once treated, shall certainly recover — yet I must first consult with the queen mother in preparing the medicine; without seeing her, the medicine can never be properly made. The king, hearing this, did not understand the reason, and grew quite angry — yet, suffering as he did from his own illness, and having long heard of Jīvaka's own renown, he had summoned him from so far away hoping for real benefit, and, seeing before him only a young boy, judged there could be no true deceit in it, and consented, sending a servant and eunuch to escort Jīvaka to see the queen mother.

Jīvaka told the queen mother: the king's own illness can be cured, and the medicine must now be prepared — but its own formula must be revealed only in secret, never spoken openly; I ask that all attendants withdraw. The queen mother had her own servant and eunuch sent out. Jīvaka then asked the queen mother: I have just now examined the king's own illness, and see that the blood and veins throughout his body are entirely the poison of scorpions and serpents, unlike that of any ordinary person at all — who, in truth, is the king's own father? Tell me the truth, queen mother, and I can treat him; should you not tell me, I shall have no way of knowing how to treat him at all.

The queen mother said: long ago, I once lay resting during the day in the Golden Pillar Hall, when suddenly something came and touched me from above; in a daze, I dreamed of intimate union with it, and, waking suddenly, saw a great scorpion, more than three fathoms long, departing from above me — and at once I knew myself with child. The king is, in truth, the son of this very scorpion. I have always been too ashamed to speak of this, and have never once let it pass my own lips — yet you, young one, have already perceived it; how remarkable your own skill is! If his illness can indeed be cured, I entrust the king's own life to you entirely — what medicine, then, should now be used to treat him?

Jīvaka said: only ghee will serve. The queen mother said: hush, child — do not speak of this at all. This king despises the very smell of ghee, and cannot bear even to hear its own name spoken; several hundred people, before and since, have been put to death merely for speaking the word "ghee" in his presence — should you speak of it now, you shall surely be killed for it, and, besides, he could never be made to swallow it even if given. I beg you to use some other medicine instead.

Jīvaka said: ghee alone can cure this poisonous illness — it is precisely because his illness is a poison that he despises its very smell so intensely. Were the king's own illness merely mild, or caused by some other poison, other remedies might yet suffice — but the scorpion's own poison is so grave, and has already spread throughout his entire body, that nothing but ghee could possibly dissolve it. I shall now boil and refine it down until it becomes like clear water instead.

He then went out to see the king, and said: I have just been in to see the queen mother, and have already determined the medicine's own formula — I shall now prepare it; in fifteen days, it shall be ready. I now have five requests — should the king grant them, my treatment shall surely succeed; should he refuse them, it cannot succeed at all.

The king asked what these five requests were. Jīvaka said: first, I ask for a new robe from the king's own chest, never yet worn by anyone, to wear myself. Second, I ask to be permitted to come and go through the palace gates alone, without hindrance. Third, I ask to be permitted to see the queen mother and the queen consort alone, each day, likewise without hindrance. Fourth, I ask that, when the king drinks the medicine, he swallow it in a single motion, all at once, without pausing partway. And fifth, I ask for the use of the king's own white elephant, capable of traveling eight thousand li, to ride myself.

The king, hearing this, grew furious, saying: how dare this mere child make such five demands? Explain yourself at once — should your explanation fail to satisfy me, I shall have you beaten to death here and now.

Jīvaka said: preparing this medicine requires the utmost purity and ritual fasting — yet I have traveled here over many days, my own clothing soiled with dust, and so I wish to wear the king's own robe while preparing it. As for the king's own past treatment of physicians, always suspecting and distrusting them, executing them, and refusing to take their medicine — my king's own ministers, high and low, all say that the king shall surely have me killed as well; yet, since your own illness has already grown so severe, I fear that, should outsiders begin to harbor thoughts of rebellion, allowing me to come and go freely, without hindrance, would let everyone, high and low, know clearly that the king trusts me without doubt, and would surely take my own medicine and recover, so that no one would then dare give rise to any rebellious intent.

As for your own past killing of so many — your ministers, high and low, all live in constant fear, none truly wishing you well, and none can be fully trusted; now, as we prepare this medicine together, I fear that, in a single unguarded glance away from me, poison might be slipped into it without my own knowledge — this is no small matter. Reflecting on this, the only people in this whole world who can truly be trusted, whose affection knows no limit, are one's own mother and wife — it is for this reason that I wish to see the queen mother, and prepare the medicine together with her.

As the medicine requires fifteen days to prepare, I wish to be permitted to enter daily, to attend to the fire's own proper timing. And, since medicine has its own precise measure and character, its potency must remain consistent throughout — should its preparation be interrupted partway, its own potency would no longer hold together properly. And there is, moreover, in the southern mountains, a divine and wondrous medicinal herb, four thousand li from here; once you have taken this medicine, you should, without delay, obtain this very herb as well, to take again afterward — it is for this reason that I wish to ride this elephant, to go and gather it myself, departing in the morning and returning by evening, that its own potency might still align properly with the medicine already prepared.

The king's own mind was greatly eased at this, and he granted every request. Jīvaka then boiled and refined the ghee for fifteen days, until it had transformed into something like clear water, yielding in all five pints of it, and gave it to the queen mother and queen consort together; they came out together with the medicine, and announced that it was ready to be taken. Jīvaka asked that the white elephant be brought and placed before the palace hall, and the king granted this as well.

The king, seeing the medicine looking like nothing more than clear water, drank it down in a single swallow. Jīvaka then mounted the elephant, and set off at once along the road back to his own kingdom.

Having traveled some three thousand li, being still young and of slight strength, unable to endure the swift pace, he grew dizzy and exhausted, and stopped to rest in the mountains. Past midday, the king belched, and the smell of ghee rose from his own breath; enraged, he cried out: this mere child has dared to poison me with ghee! No wonder he asked for my own white elephant — he meant only to flee with it all along!

The king had a brave warrior, named Wū, swift of foot through his own spiritual power, whom he ordered at once to pursue and bring the boy back, that he might beat him to death before his own eyes.

Wū caught up with Jīvaka, and said: why did you give the king ghee, and yet call it the King of Medicine? The king has sent me to pursue and summon you back — you must come with me at once, and confess and apologize, hoping thereby to be spared; should you insist on fleeing instead, I shall surely kill you, and you shall not escape at all.

Jīvaka thought to himself: though I devised this means to obtain the white elephant, I still cannot escape now — I must devise some further means; how can I possibly go back with him? He then said to Wū: I have not eaten since this morning, and, were I to return now, I would surely die of hunger along the way — might you grant me a brief moment here in the mountains, to eat some fruit and drink some water, before facing my own death?

Wū, seeing that Jīvaka was still a mere child, fearing death, and speaking with such evident distress, took pity on him, and agreed, saying: eat quickly, then, and let us go — we cannot delay here long.

Jīvaka then took a pear, and ate half of it, having placed poison beneath his own fingernail, and set the remaining half down upon the ground; he also took a bowl of water, and drank half of it, again passing the poison from beneath his nail into the remaining water, and set that down as well. He then sighed, and said: this water and this pear are both truly heavenly medicine, fragrant and delicious — whoever eats and drinks of them finds their own body at ease, every illness cured, their own strength doubled. What a shame that this is not available in the very capital itself, that the common people might all share in it — yet here it lies, deep in the mountains, where no one even knows of it. He then went further into the mountains, as though searching for more fruit.

Wū, by nature greedy and unable to restrain his own appetite, and hearing Jīvaka praise these as divine medicine, and having seen Jīvaka himself eat and drink of them already, believed there could be no poison in them at all, and ate the remaining pear, and drank the remaining water. At once, he fell into violent diarrhea, pouring out like water; he collapsed to the ground, and, whenever he tried to rise, grew dizzy and fell again, unable to move at all.

Jīvaka went to him, and said: the king, drinking my own medicine, shall certainly recover — yet its own potency has not yet fully taken effect, and its residual poison not yet exhausted. Had I gone back with you now, I would surely have been killed — you understood nothing of this. You have merely absorbed, on my own behalf, the poison meant to relieve the king's own body, and this is why you now suffer this illness — yet the illness itself brings no true harm; take care not to move about, and, within three days, you shall recover. Should you rise now and pursue me regardless, you shall surely die, without doubt.

He then mounted the elephant, and departed. Passing a village, he told its own headman: this is an envoy of the great king, who has suddenly fallen ill — go quickly, and carry him back, caring for him well in your own home; provide him a good bed, and gruel to eat, and take great care he does not die — should he die, the king shall destroy your own village for it. Having said this, he departed, and returned to his own kingdom.

The village headman, following this command, carried Wū back and cared for him; after three days, the poison subsided, and, once he was well enough to travel, he returned. Seeing the king, he bowed his head and confessed: I was truly foolish, and disobeyed the king's own instruction, believing Jīvaka's own words, and ate the remaining fruit and drank the remaining water — and was struck down by the medicine's own residual poison, suffering diarrhea for three days, only now recovering; I knew myself certain to die for this failure.

Yet, in the three days it took Wū to return, the king's own illness had already been cured. The king, regretting having sent Wū after him at all, seeing him return now, felt both joy and sorrow together, and said: had you not failed to bring the boy back to me at once, I would surely, in my own anger, have had him beaten to death — and it was through his own kindness that I have now been restored to life; to have killed him instead would have been a wrong beyond reckoning. He then had every person he had wrongly killed, before and since, properly reburied with honor, restored their own households, and granted them wealth.

Wishing to see Jīvaka, to repay his own debt to him, the king sent an envoy to receive him. Jīvaka, though he knew the king's own illness was already cured, still harbored fear, and did not wish to go again. The Buddha told Jīvaka: you now hold, from a past life, a vast vow already fulfilled through your own merit — how could you stop partway now? You should go once more. You have already treated his outer illness; I too shall treat his inner illness in turn.

Jīvaka then went with the envoy. The king, seeing Jīvaka, was overjoyed, and, drawing him to sit beside him, taking hold of his own arm, said: it is only through your own benevolent kindness that I have been restored to life — how shall I repay you? I shall divide my own kingdom, and give you half of it; the women and treasures of my own inner palace, too, I shall divide in half for you.

Jīvaka said: I was originally a crown prince myself; though my own kingdom was small, it too had its own people, and every treasure in full measure — yet I took no delight in governing, and sought instead to become a physician, devoting myself to healing the sick; I have no use at all for land, women, or treasure. Earlier, the king granted my own five requests, and your outer illness was thereby cured — should the king now grant me one further request, your inner illness, too, shall be removed.

The king said: I shall follow your own teaching in this as well — ask, and I shall grant it. Jīvaka said: I ask that the king invite the Buddha, and receive his own clear teaching — let me tell the king of the Buddha's own merit.

The king, hearing this, was greatly delighted, and said: shall I now send my minister Wū with the white elephant to receive the Buddha — could this be done? Jīvaka said: there is no need for the white elephant at all. The Buddha already knows your own heart's thought from afar — you need only keep the fast, purify yourself, prepare every offering, burn incense, bow toward him from a distance, and kneel at length to invite him — the Buddha shall surely come of his own accord.

The king did exactly as instructed, and the Buddha, together with twelve hundred and fifty monks, came at once. Once the meal was finished, the Buddha taught the king the sūtra's own teaching; the king's own mind opened in understanding, and he gave rise to the resolve for the unsurpassed path, and the whole kingdom, high and low, took up the five precepts.

Āmrapālī, from her own birth, had already shown signs of the extraordinary; growing up clever as well, she studied under her own father, becoming widely learned in the scriptures, the path, astrology, and every other art, surpassing even her own father in this. She was, besides, accomplished in music, her own voice like that of the Brahmā heaven itself. The daughters of every wealthy and brahmin household, five hundred in number, all came to study under her as their own teacher.

Āmrapālī often gathered her own five hundred disciples to teach the scriptures and other arts, and, at times, they would enjoy themselves together in gardens and pools, and play music together. The people of the kingdom, not understanding the true nature of this, began to slander her, calling her a courtesan, and her five hundred disciples her own licentious followers.

At the very time Āmrapālī was born, two other girls were born as well in that same kingdom: one named Sumanā, the other Padmā. Sumanā was born in a wealthy household that regularly pressed jasmine flowers into fragrant oil; beside the pressing-stone, a swollen knot suddenly appeared, as large as a pellet, growing to the size of a clenched fist, until the stone itself burst open, and, within the stone's own crack, a light like a firefly's own glow shone forth, shooting out and falling to the ground; three days later, a jasmine flower grew there, and, three days after that, it bloomed, revealing within it a small girl. The wealthy household took her in and raised her, naming her Sumanā; growing to maturity, her own talent and wisdom ranked second only to Āmrapālī's own.

Padmā was born in a brahmin's own household, within whose bathing pool a blue lotus grew, growing larger day by day until it reached the size of a five-pint vessel; when the flower opened, a small girl was found within it. The brahmin raised her, naming her Padmā; growing to maturity, her own talent and wisdom equaled Sumanā's own.

Kings from every land, hearing of these two girls' own unrivaled beauty, came one after another to seek their hand in marriage. The two girls said: we were not born through the ordinary womb at all, but came forth from grass and flower alike — unlike ordinary people, how could it be fitting for us to follow worldly custom, and marry as others do? Hearing that Āmrapālī's own cleverness was unmatched throughout the whole world, and that she too shared their own manner of birth, they each took leave of their own parents, and went to serve Āmrapālī, asking to become her disciples; their own clear wisdom and broad learning together surpassed even the other five hundred disciples combined.

The Buddha, at this time, came to Vaiśālī. Āmrapālī, together with her own disciples, went out from the city to receive him, bowed before the Buddha, and, kneeling, said: I ask the Buddha, tomorrow, to eat in my own garden. The Buddha accepted this in silence.

The king too came out from his own palace to receive the Buddha, and likewise invited him to eat in the palace the next day. The Buddha said: Āmrapālī invited me first — the king shall come after her. The king said: I am the ruler of this kingdom, and have invited the Buddha with my own sincere heart — I had hoped for your compassionate assent. Āmrapālī is nothing but a mere courtesan, leading her own five hundred disciples daily in unruly conduct — why would the Buddha set me aside, to answer her own invitation instead?

The Buddha said: this woman is no courtesan at all. In her own past lives, she accumulated great merit, having already made offerings to three hundred million buddhas; long ago, moreover, she was sisters with both Sumanā and Padmā — Āmrapālī the eldest, Sumanā next, and Padmā the youngest, born into a household of great lineage, rich in wealth and treasure. The sisters, together with their own teacher, made offerings to five hundred nuns, providing food, drink, and clothing, supplying whatever was lacking, for the whole span of their own lives.

The three of them made this vow together: may we, in a life to come, encounter a buddha, and be born spontaneously, not through the ordinary womb, far removed from all defilement. It is now, exactly as they once vowed, that they have been born to encounter me. Though they once made offerings to five hundred nuns, having been born into such wealth and privilege, their own speech grew proud and unrestrained; they once teased these nuns, saying: you renunciants, holding your own unhappiness so long pent up, must surely wish to marry — it is only our own constant support that keeps you from indulging your own true feelings. It is for this very reason that they now suffer this residual consequence — though they teach the scriptures and the path themselves, they are wrongly slandered with accusations of licentiousness in turn. And these same five hundred disciples, who once joined their own hearts together in that earlier life, have now, in this life, come to follow them once again.

Jīvaka, at that time, was the child of a poor household; Āmrapālī, seeing him, felt great fondness and admiration for him, though he had no wealth of his own, and so he constantly swept and cleaned for the nuns instead, and would often think to himself: may I be able to cure the illnesses of everyone under heaven. Āmrapālī, taking pity on his poverty, and valuing his own diligence, often called him her own son. Whenever any of the nuns fell ill, she would send Jīvaka to fetch a physician and prepare the medicine decoction; they would all say to him: may you, in a life to come, attain this very same blessing together with us. Jīvaka, fetching physicians whose treatments always succeeded, then made this vow himself: may I, in a life to come, become a great king among physicians, constantly curing every person's own illness of the four elements, wherever I go, without fail.

The king, hearing the Buddha's own words, repented of his own error, and deferred his own invitation to a later day. The Buddha, the next day, went with his monks to Āmrapālī's own garden, and taught them in full the merit of their own past vow. The three women, hearing this teaching, all had their own minds opened in understanding, and, together with their five hundred disciples, all attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of Āmrapālī).