Crown Princes on the Śrāvaka Path

There was a king named Fànmónán who made offerings to the Buddha and the saṅgha. Whenever the fast day came, the king would go with his retinue to where the Buddha was; and whenever the Buddha taught the Dharma, the king would rejoice and listen to the sūtra with reverence.

His crown prince was named Jūnlínrú, who with all his heart applied himself and awoke to the impermanence of the world: there is no birth that does not die, and he did not covet the glory of the moment. He said to the king: a buddha is hard to meet with in the world, and the teaching of the sūtras hard to hear. I beg to become a śramaṇa. The king consented.

Jūnlínrú then took leave of the king and went to the Buddha, and begged to become a monk. The Buddha stroked his head with his hand, and his hair fell away of itself and the kāṣāya robe was upon his body. He upheld the weighty precepts and applied himself with vigor, untiring day and night; and after three months he attained arhatship.

The king did not know that his son had attained the path. Seeing his hard toil and his coarse vegetable food, and going always to make offerings, he thought him different from the other monks and his mind not the same as theirs, and said to him: in my kingdom there is nothing lacking of rare treasures and the seven jewels, of fine food and sweet delicacies. Why do you take pleasure in being a śramaṇa?

Jūnlínrú then lifted himself lightly and stood in the open air, flying and transforming himself, dividing his body and scattering his form, passing in and out without obstruction. The king, seeing this, was overcome with grief and joy together, threw himself full-length to the ground, and made obeisance to Jūnlínrú.

The Buddha had Jūnlínrú teach the king the four truths — suffering, emptiness, and impermanence. The king’s mind at once opened in understanding, and he attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Sūtra of King Fànmónán).

When King Aśoka first came to the throne he established his younger brother Tiṣya (the Aśokāvadāna calls him Vītāśoka; the Chūyào jīng calls him Good Countenance) as crown prince, and said to him: you should give rise to good faith in the Buddha’s Dharma.

His brother later went hunting and entered a forest, where he saw an ascetic scorching his body with the five heats, and a deep faith arose in him. He bowed his head to the ascetic’s feet and asked: how long have you dwelt here? What do you wear and eat? How do you rest at ease, and does desire arise?

He answered: twelve years have passed. I eat only the fruits and roots of trees, weave thatch for clothing, and spread grass to lie on. When I see deer coupling, thoughts of desire arise in me.

Tiṣya was struck by a doubt: if desire arises even in one who practices such austerities, then the Buddha’s disciples, who speak at ease and live in comfort — when they see the objects of desire, can they hold their minds from stirring? And once desire has arisen, how can they be free of it? And he spoke this verse:

“The ascetic afflicts himself for nothing, / swallowing air and giving up defiled food. / Eating emptily on roots and leaves and fruit, / he cannot bring lust to an end. / The sons of Śākyamuni have clothing and food / enough, warm and sweet; / they do not give up what people rely on, / on Bimbisāra’s mountain, in Jambudvīpa.”

Tiṣya said further: the disciples of Śākyamuni deceive the king into performing meritorious works. The king, hearing of it, told his great ministers: my younger brother has given rise to faith in the heterodox teachers. I shall use expedient means to bring him to right understanding. I intend to bathe, and shall go into the bath-house; you may adorn my brother with the royal diadem and regalia, and set him upon my throne.

While the king was bathing, the ministers urged Tiṣya on, and Tiṣya complied. The king came and saw it, and said: I am not yet dead, and you have already assumed the throne — and ordered him killed. Many men seized weapons and surrounded him.

The great ministers said to the king: this is the king’s own brother. We ask the king to be patient and not give rise to anger. He answered: I shall be patient. For seven days I shall lend him the kingdom and let him be king, with entertainments of every kind and palace women to attend on him, and all the ministers and people shall come to pay their respects. But the executioner stood at the gate with the blade in his hand, reporting to the king day by day, until the seventh day came.

With the royal insignia, Aśoka’s great ministers and the rest brought Vītāśoka to pay his respects to Aśoka’s ministers. The king asked him: for seven days you have been king — did you find the entertainments of every kind good to hear and to see? He answered with a verse:

“For these seven days / I neither saw nor heard a sound, / smelled nothing, tasted no fine flavor, / nor felt any touch at all. / My body’s ornaments, / and the palace women too — / thinking on it, and fearing death, / I could give them no attention. / The singing and dancing of the women, / the palaces and the bedding, / the great earth’s every treasure — / from the first they gave my heart no joy. / For I saw the executioner / standing at the gate with the blade in his hand, / and heard besides the shaking of the bell, / which made me hold the fear of death. / Death was a stake nailed through my heart; / I knew nothing of the fine five desires. / Fastened on by the sickness of the fear of death, / I could not sleep in peace. / Thinking that death was coming, / I did not notice that the night had passed.”

The king said to his brother: within a single lifetime you have thought on the suffering of death, and though you had the finest of the five desires no attachment arose in you. Monks who have gone forth think, with regard to the twelve sense-fields, upon measureless birth and death and the suffering of the three evil destinies; they think too on how, among humans and gods, one races after things in all directions and it all comes at last to ruin — like an empty village with no inhabitants, with the fire of impermanence burning the whole world. The Buddha’s disciples make this contemplation constantly. How then should the afflictions arise in them?

By this expedient the king taught him the Buddha’s Dharma, and Vītāśoka said: I now take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṅgha. The king embraced his brother’s neck with both hands and said to him: I never cast you off; it was to make you believe in the Buddha’s Dharma that I contrived this expedient. Vītāśoka then made offerings to the Buddha’s stūpas with flowers and incense of every kind and with music, and offerings of food and drink of every kind to the saṅgha (Source: the Aśokāvadāna).

On another day he went out hunting again, and came to a wilderness retreat, where he saw the seat of a monk named Dharmagupta. A slender branch bent down and brushed the monk from a distance, and Tiṣya was delighted at heart and made this wish: when shall I become like that monk? The monk Dharmagupta (the Aśokāvadāna calls him Yaśas, and differs slightly) knew Tiṣya’s wish in advance, and by his spiritual power flew up into the open sky where Tiṣya could see him, then went to Aśoka’s monastery, stood beside the pool, placed his robe in mid-air, and entered the pool to bathe.

Tiṣya, seeing this, said: I shall go forth. He returned to the palace and said to the king: I ask you, of your compassion, to permit me to go forth. The king said: with entertainments and a hundred flavors before you, why go forth? The king used every expedient to stop his mind, but his resolve was firm and he would never consent, answering the king: joy and pleasure are here only for a moment, and parting must come at last. The great king exclaimed: excellent (Source: Samantapāsādikā, fascicle 2). But you should first practice begging for your food, and go forth after that.

In the king’s rear park there was a great tree; he had grass spread on the ground and had his brother stay beneath it, and gave him an earthenware bowl and sent him into the palace to beg for food. Vītāśoka took the bowl and went into the palace, and they gave him fine food of every kind. The king said to the palace staff: how is it that you give a beggar the finest food? From now on you are to give him coarse food — down to barley gruel. Vītāśoka received it and ate it and did not think it bad.

The king said to him: do not eat this food; I permit you to go forth. But after you have gone forth, come always to see me. So robes and bowl were prepared, and with a thousand chariots and ten thousand horsemen he was escorted to the Kukkuṭārāma. Thinking that with such commotion he could not cultivate the path, he went instead to the country of Pítí and went forth under the monk Dharmagupta. A thousand sons of the noble and eminent elders of the kingdom went forth along with him, and all the people wondered, saying to one another: he gave up even a throne — what are we holding on to? And countless people went forth. The king’s nephew, a brahmin named Āshì, had one son go forth (in the fourth [year] of the Dharma).

The nobles, officials, servants, and slaves all took the five precepts, kept the six fast days of the month, and fulfilled the eight branches of observance; and thereby many kṣatriyas went forth, and the Buddha’s Dharma flourished. The heterodox teachers declined and perished and altogether lost their offerings, and, begging everywhere and getting nothing, they entered the Buddha’s Dharma under false pretenses and became śramaṇas, while still holding to their original doctrines and teaching them to the people. The good monks would not associate with them.

At that time Moggaliputta Tissa handed his disciples over to Mahinda and withdrew in seclusion to Mount Āxiūhé. The heterodox monks wished to mix their own scriptures in and confuse the Buddha’s Dharma, and so it grew turbid and defiled: some served fire, some scorched their bodies with the five heats, some entered water in the great cold, some destroyed the Buddha’s Dharma. Thus it went on and on, until for seven years the precepts could not be recited.

Aśoka sent a great minister into the royal monastery to say to the senior monk: the king orders the saṅgha to assemble in concord and recite the precepts. The senior monk answered: the good monks will not hold the uposatha together with the heterodox monks. The great minister began beheading them in order, and came to Tiṣya. The minister asked: and who are you? He answered: I am the king’s own younger brother. At that he stopped.

The minister then reported to the king. The king, hearing it, was aghast and stricken with remorse, and went to the monastery and asked: which of us has incurred the guilt? One monk said: both have incurred it. Another monk said: there was no intent to kill; the king himself has no guilt. Doubt arose in the king’s mind, and he asked the monks: is there anyone who can resolve my doubt? If my doubting mind is resolved, I shall raise up the Buddha’s Dharma again. The monks said: Tiṣya can resolve it.

He sent a messenger to fetch Tiṣya, conveying the king’s meaning: the Buddha’s Dharma has now sunk away; I humbly ask the venerable one to come and raise it up with me. Tiṣya answered: I went forth precisely for the Buddha’s Dharma, and now the time has come.

That night the king dreamed that a white elephant stroked his head with its trunk and took his right hand. In the morning he asked the physiognomists, who answered: the one who took the king’s hand is the image of a śramaṇa. He then asked the messenger, who said: Tiṣya arrives today. The king went out to receive him, and Tiṣya took the king’s hand — at which the attendants drew their swords and would have killed him. The king, seeing the reflection of the blades in the water, said: I once ordered you to go to the monastery and make the saṅgha assemble in concord and recite the precepts; you took my meaning perversely and killed monks. Do you now mean to kill me too?

The king brought Tiṣya into the park, washed his feet with his own hands and anointed them with oil, and asked: I wish to see the venerable one’s spiritual power. Tiṣya marked out a boundary with a cord one yojana on each of the four sides, and set a chariot to the east, a horse to the south, a man to the west, and a basin of water to the north, and had them each ride on the boundary. Outside the boundary all shook; the outer legs all trembled, while the inner legs did not move. The king was delighted, and said: my earlier doubt is changed. Within the Buddha’s Dharma the bad doctrine can be extinguished.

Tiṣya then expounded the Jātaka Sūtra for him, saying: the Buddha told the monks — first weigh the mind, and afterward the act; all deeds arise from the mind (Source: the Vibhāṣā, fascicle 2). Afterward he attained the path of arhatship and received the joy of liberation.

Remembering his old promise to the king, that after going forth he would come always to see him, he thought: I should now fulfil that promise. And so, travelling in due course to the country of Pāṭaliputra, he rose early, put on his robe, took his bowl, entered the city to beg, and, going in order, came to the royal city and said to the gatekeeper: go in and tell the king that Vītāśoka is now outside the gate and wishes to see the great king. The gatekeeper told the king, and the king said: bring him in. The king rose and made obeisance like a great tree falling; and, rising, he pressed his palms together and gazed at him without tiring, and said, weeping:

“All living beings / take joy in being together; / you have now put aside all togetherness / and savor instead the mind of quiet. / I now know your mind — / with wisdom that never tires.”

The great minister Shànhù saw Vītāśoka in rag-robes, holding an earthenware bowl, begging in order, receiving coarse and fine alike with no discrimination in his mind, and said to the king: Vītāśoka has few desires and knows what is enough; what was to be done, he has done. The king lifted him onto a fine seat and gave him food and drink of every kind with his own hands. When he had eaten, he washed his bowl, set it in one place, and taught the Dharma to the king:

“The king has now attained sovereign power; / he should cultivate diligence. / The Three Jewels are very hard to meet with; / the king should make offerings with effort.”

He rose into the open sky, and all the people saw him. The king and the great assembly gazed at him with palms joined, not taking their eyes away for a moment, and said to the king:

“No longer any love of kin and friend — / like a bird flying in the open sky. / I, chained by greed and defilement, / cannot go free as he does. / Meditative absorption has an excellent fruit, / with nothing whatever to obstruct it; / blinded by the love of desire, / I cannot see this Dharma. / You now, with your spiritual power, / make light of me who give rise to desire and craving. / I once had the conceit of wisdom; / now you are the most excellent. / We cling to worldly things, / and only on seeing a sage do we begin to fear. / Now we weep, / because you today have cast us off.”

Vītāśoka went to a border region, and, arriving, fell ill; and because the illness was severe, sores broke out all over his head. The king, hearing of it, sent attendants and physicians and medicine to treat him, and afterward he improved a little, and he sent the physicians and attendants all back again. The only thing his body could take was milk, and so for the sake of begging it he went to a place where there were many cattle.

There was also a country named Puṇḍravardhana (which in the language of Liang means “Increase”), whose people all believed in the heterodox teachings. A disciple of the Buddha saw something there and reported it to the king, who sent a yakṣa who in a single instant brought the heterodox disciple and the painted image before him; and, giving rise to great anger, he had every heterodox believer in the country of Puṇḍravardhana killed — a hundred and eight thousand of them slain in a single day.

There was another heterodox disciple who loved the heterodox teaching and served a naked god, and had painted the Tathāgata bowing at that god’s feet. When the king heard of this too, he ordered others to seize this man and all his kin, put them in a single house, and burn it with fire. And the king proclaimed an edict: whoever can bring me the head of one Nirgrantha, I shall give a gold coin.

Vītāśoka had gone into a cattle-pen, and had been ill many days; his hair, beard, and nails had all grown long and sharp, his clothes were tattered and without luster. The cowherd’s wife privately thought: a Nirgrantha has come into my house — and said to her husband: kill this Nirgrantha and take his head to the king; you will surely get the gold reward. Her husband drew a blade and went.

Vītāśoka thought to himself: I see there is no escaping the retribution of my own deeds — and so accepted death. The man carried the head to the king and sought his gold. The king was doubtful and asked the physicians and attendants, who answered: this is Vītāśoka’s head. The king fainted away for a long while.

The great ministers said to the king: one free of outflows is not extinguished by this suffering. The great king should give fearlessness to living beings. The king followed their words and proclaimed that none might kill Nirgranthas any more.

Doubt arose among the monks, and they asked Upagupta: what deed did Vītāśoka do in the past, that he receives this result now? He answered: in a past age there was a hunter who killed many herds of deer. In a great forest there was a spring, and this hunter set out nets and laid his snare-cords at the water’s edge, and killed many deer there. At that time no buddha had appeared in the world. A pratyekabuddha ate beside that water, and, having eaten, washed and returned to sit beneath a tree; and the herd of deer, catching the pratyekabuddha’s scent, would not go to the water. The hunter sat and saw no deer coming, and, following their tracks, came to the pratyekabuddha, and thought: it is because of this man that the deer do not come — and killed the pratyekabuddha with his blade.

The hunter of that time is Vītāśoka. Because he killed the deer, he now has much sickness and pain; and because he killed the pratyekabuddha, he was in hell for countless years, suffering every torment, and for five hundred lives, wherever he was born among humans, was killed by another in each life. This is the last of that fruit: though he had attained arhatship, he was still killed by another.

Under the Dharma of the Buddha Kāśyapa he had gone forth and delighted in giving, constantly urging others to make offerings to the saṅgha. There was a stūpa of the Buddha’s hair and nails, and he made offerings to it with incense, flowers, banners, canopies, and music of every kind. By that karmic result he was born into a great clan, and for a hundred thousand years constantly practiced the holy life. And he further made a vow — and by that karmic condition he attained arhatship (Source: the Aśokāvadāna, fascicle 3).

Prince Jeta said to the Buddha: some time ago I received the five precepts, but the precept against liquor is hard to keep, and I fear I shall slip and incur guilt. I now wish to give up the five precepts and receive instead the ten wholesome deeds.

The Buddha said: when you drink liquor, what harm comes of it? He answered: the great and powerful of the kingdom lead one another out from time to time, bringing liquor and food, and enjoy themselves together; it comes to pleasure and no further harm. Having taken liquor I keep the precepts in mind and do nothing evil.

The Buddha said: if a person can be as you are, what harm is there in drinking liquor all his life? One who acts in this way should generate merit and have no guilt at all. Now, the good that people do is of two kinds: the first with outflows, the second without. Good with outflows receives the pleasures of the human and heavenly realms; good without outflows crosses beyond the suffering of birth and death, to the fruit of nirvāṇa. If a person drinks liquor and gives rise to no evil deed, then by the causes and conditions of a wholesome mind he receives a wholesome result. What have you lost in keeping the five precepts?

In the city of Śrāvastī there were noble kṣatriya clans and lords who, through a small quarrel, came at last to great enmity, each side laying plans and raising troops to attack the other. Both houses were among the leading families of the kingdom, and both were kin to the throne and could not simply be arrested. They fought in confusion and would not listen to reasoned remonstrance, and [the prince] was deeply troubled by it.

He thought to himself: long ago there was a great minister of the former king named Tíwéiluó, who, relying on his clan’s wealth, rank, and power, treated me with contempt and made sport of me. At the time I was furious and truly wished to have him destroyed; I raised the matter with my father, but my father would not agree, and I harbored my poison and nursed my resentment with nothing to be done about it. Vexed and worn out with grief, I could not eat.

My mother the queen, seeing my distress, admonished and reasoned with me in every way, but my heart would not be quieted; so she found good liquor and urged me to drink it. I said to my mother: our ancestors have served, one generation after another, the god Nārāyaṇa; if I drink liquor now I fear the god will surely be angry, and the brahmins will call me to account. But in the quiet of the night my mother secretly opened the palace gate, letting no one know, and pressed me two and three times, until I bowed my head and complied. Once I had drunk the liquor I forgot my grief and resentment; I gathered the palace women, and had music and entertainments for three times seven days, and from then on the matter rested.

Having thought this over, he ordered a trusted minister to prepare good liquor and fine delicacies, and summoned the assembled ministers to gather in the king’s hall. The trusted minister prepared bowls of lapis glass, each holding three pints. The prince first poured one bowl, and a bowl of the sweet and excellent medicine was prepared for each man; afterward they discussed affairs of state, with entertainments performed throughout. All of them, having taken the liquor and hearing the music, were glad at heart, forgot their grudges, and were flowing and free of care.

The prince then raised his bowl and said to the assembled gentlemen: a gentleman cultivates virtue and passes it down through the generations; we honor the sages’ teaching and should not depart from it. Why do you gentlemen quarrel so bitterly over a small matter? If you will not be patient, I fear the altars of the state will be lost. Therefore I remonstrate with you once more: let it rest of your own accord. The ministers said to him: we respectfully receive your weighty command, and dare not go against it. And by this means peace was made — which was the work of the liquor (Source: Sūtra of Unprecedented Causes and Conditions, lower fascicle).

King Aśoka had a consort named Padmāvatī (which in the language of Liang means “lotus flower”), who bore a son, upright in form and color, whose eyes above all were such that no one who saw him did not love him. The palace women told the king: your consort has borne a son. The king was greatly delighted, and named the child Dharma (which in the language of Liang means “Dharma”) -vardhana (which means “Increase”). They brought the child and showed him to King Aśoka, and the king, seeing him, said this verse in delight:

“My son’s eyes are upright and grave, / made by merit; / their light is very brilliant, / like an utpala flower. / With these eyes of merit / adorning his face on either side, / his face and eyes are upright / as the full moon of autumn.”

When Kunāla had grown, a bride was taken for him, named Kāñcanā (which in the language of Liang means “gold”) -mālā (which means “garland-flower”). At that time King Aśoka took Kunāla to the Kukkuṭārāma. At the monastery there was a senior monk, an arhat of the six supernormal powers, named Yaśas. Yaśas, seeing Kunāla, saw that before long he was to lose his eyes, and said to the king: this is precisely so that Kunāla may do his own work. King Aśoka then said to Kunāla: the venerable one is mindful of what you must do; you should follow him.

Kunāla bowed at Yaśas’s feet and said: venerable one, teach me what I must do. Yaśas answered: the eye is not permanent; you should contemplate it. And he spoke this verse:

“You, Kunāla, / contemplate the eye constantly: / impermanent, diseased, painful, / a gathering of every suffering. / Ordinary people, upside down, / give rise to faults on account of it.”

Kunāla then sat alone in a quiet place in the palace and contemplated how the eye and the other sense-fields are suffering and impermanent. At that time King Aśoka’s first consort, named Tiṣyarakṣitā, came to Kunāla’s quarters and saw him sitting alone; and, gazing at his eyes, desire arose in her, and she embraced him with her hands and spoke this verse:

“With the fire of a great and forceful love / I have come now to burn my own heart; / as fire burns firewood — / you should yield to my wish.”

Kunāla covered his ears and spoke a verse:

“You are now my mother; / this is a love against the Dharma. / You should put it aside — / it opens the gate to the evil destinies.”

His mother’s heart turned to rage, and she spoke another verse:

“A loving heart came to your place, / and you have no loving heart. / Since your heart holds this ill will, / it shall be extinguished before long.”

Kunāla said:

“I would sooner die now / than give rise to an impure mind. / If I gave rise to an evil mind, / I would lose the good dharmas of gods and men. / And the good dharmas being lost, / on what would I depend to live?”

Tiṣyarakṣitā watched constantly for a fault in him, wishing to kill him. To the north there was a country named Takṣaśilā, which had gone against the king. King Aśoka ordered Kunāla: go to that country. He answered the king: yes.

The king thought of him, and so had the roads doubly adorned and put in order, so that the old, the sick, and the dead should be nowhere seen. Then the king and Kunāla rode in one chariot as he saw him off. Near the road, as they were about to part, he took his son’s neck in his arms and, seeing Kunāla’s eyes, wept and said:

“If any person sees / Kunāla’s eyes, / then, from the joy in their heart, / whatever illness they have is removed.”

A physiognomist saw the king gazing only at his son’s eyes and paying attention to nothing else, and spoke this verse:

“The prince’s eyes are pure; / the king looks at them and rejoices at heart. / All the people of the land, / seeing them, are as glad as gods. / If these eyes should be lost, / all will be in anguish.”

So Kunāla travelled on in due course and came to the country of Takṣaśilā. The people of that country, hearing of it, put the roads in order for half a yojana out, and set water everywhere to await the arriving company. The people then spoke this verse:

“The people of Takṣaśilā / hold jeweled jars filled with water, / and every kind of offering, / to welcome King Kunāla.”

When the king arrived, the people joined their palms and said: we come to welcome the king. It is not that we mean to quarrel or that we side against him; we bear no grudge against the great king. But the minister the king has sent to govern in our country governs without justice, and we wish to have him removed. And the people made offerings of every kind to King Kunāla and welcomed him into the country.

At that time King Aśoka fell gravely ill; excrement came from his mouth, and every kind of unclean fluid from his pores, and no good physician could cure it. The king said to his ministers: summon Kunāla back. I shall anoint his head and confer the throne upon him. I no longer covet body or life.

Then Tiṣyarakṣitā said to the king: I can make the king’s illness be cured. The king took her at her word and dismissed all the physicians. Tiṣyarakṣitā said to the physicians: if you hear of a man or woman ill as the king is, you may bring them to me.

In the country of Āpíluó there was a man ill exactly as the king was. The sick man’s wife sought a physician for him, and the physician answered: bring him, I wish to see him, and I shall prescribe medicine. The wife brought him to the physician, and the physician sent him to the king’s consort. The king’s consort took this sick man to a place with no one about and had his belly cut open and the two viscera, raw and cooked, taken out. There was a great worm in it: when the worm went upward, excrement came from the mouth; when it went downward, it came out below; and when it went to either side, it came out through the pores.

The king’s consort set marica beside the worm, and the worm did not die. She set pippalī beside it, and the worm did not die. She set dried ginger beside it, and the worm did not die. And at last she set garlic beside the worm, and the worm died at once.

The king’s consort reported all this to the king: the king should now eat garlic, and the illness will be cured. The king answered: I am a kṣatriya, and may not eat garlic. His consort said again: for the sake of your body and life, eat it as though it were medicine. So the king ate it; the worm died and the illness was removed, and his bodily functions were as before.

The king bathed himself clean and said to his consort: whatever you now ask for, it shall be given you as you wish. His consort said to the king: I ask the king to let me be king for seven days. The king said to her: if you were king you would surely kill me. She said again: after the seven days I shall return it to the king. And the king consented.

His consort, playing at being king, wrote a letter to the people of Takṣaśilā, ordering them to take out Kunāla’s eyes. The letter written, it needed the impression of the king’s teeth as a seal. The king slept, and his consort, wishing to seal the letter, came near him — and the king woke with a start. His consort said: why do you start? The king said: I dreamed that a vulture wanted to take Kunāla’s eyes. His consort answered: your son Kunāla is entirely safe.

A second time he dreamed, and again the king started up: I have dreamed again. His consort asked: and what was the dream? The king answered: I saw Kunāla with his hair, beard, and nails all grown long and sharp, and unable to speak. His consort answered: he is safe now; do not trouble yourself over it. The king slept again, and his consort secretly sealed it with the great king’s teeth, and sent a messenger with it to the people of Takṣaśilā.

The king dreamed once more that all his own teeth fell out. In the clear light of morning, when he had bathed, he summoned the physiognomists and told them the dream. The physiognomists answered: if a person has such a dream, his son will lose his eyes — it is no different from losing the son. Hearing this, the king rose at once, joined his palms, faced the gods of the west, and made this prayer:

“Today with one mind I take refuge in the Buddha, / in the pure Dharma and the Saṅgha, / and in all the sages of the world, / who are supreme in this world. / May all the holy assemblies / protect Kunāla.”

The messenger carried the letter to the country of Takṣaśilā. When the people there saw the letter arrive, they thought of Kunāla, and together concealed the letter and did not give it to him. But then the people thought again: the great king Aśoka is much to be feared, and his mind neither reveres nor trusts; if he would take out the eyes of his own son, how much more readily would he raise evil against us. And they gave the letter to Kunāla.

Kunāla, having received the letter, said to the people: if you are able to take my eyes, do now as you please. The people then called a caṇḍāla: you are to gouge out Kunāla’s eyes. The caṇḍāla joined his palms and said: I cannot do it.

“If a man could take from the full moon / its light, / that man would be able to take away / the bright-moon eyes of your face.”

Then Kunāla took off his jeweled crown and said to the caṇḍāla: gouge out my eyes, and I shall give you this. And there was another man, repulsive in appearance and marked with the eighteen kinds of ugliness, who said to Kunāla: I can gouge out the eyes. Then Kunāla remembered what the venerable Yaśas had said, and spoke this verse:

“I remember the good friend — / it was truly spoken. / Contemplating this meaning, / I know the eye is impermanent. / My good friend, / who was able to benefit me, / this man has already told me / the causes of the eye’s suffering. / I think always / that all things are impermanent. / This teaching of my teacher / I hold deeply in memory. / I do not fear suffering; / I see that dharmas do not abide. / I always obey the king’s command — / take my eyes.”

He said to the ugly man: take one of my eyes and put it in my hand; I wish to look at it. When this ugly man was about to take his eye, countless people together railed at him in anger and spoke this verse:

“The eye is pure and without stain, / like the moon in the sky. / You now gouge out this eye / as though tearing a lotus from a pool.”

These countless people wailed and wept. Then the ugly man took out the eye and placed it in Kunāla’s hand, and Kunāla received it in his hand and spoke a verse to the eye:

“You, in an earlier time, / could see forms; / and now, / why do you not see? / What once made me see / gave rise to a loving mind; / looking now, it is not real, / but only a deception, / like foam on water, / empty and without substance. / You have no power, / and no sovereignty of your own. / If a person sees this, / they will not undergo suffering.”

Contemplating that all dharmas are impermanent, he attained the fruit of stream-entry. And he said again to the ugly man: as for the one eye remaining, take it as you please. Then the ugly man gouged that out too and placed it in Kunāla’s hand. Having lost his fleshly eyes, he obtained the eye of wisdom, and spoke another verse:

“I today / have given up these eyes of flesh; / the eye of wisdom is hard to obtain, / and I have obtained it now. / The king today casts me off; / I am not the king’s son. / I have now obtained the Dharma, / and am a son of the Dharma-king. / From now on I am free, / apart from the palace of suffering, / and have climbed once more into freedom, / the palace of the Dharma-king.”

Kunāla knew that the one who had taken his eyes was Tiṣyarakṣitā, and spoke this verse:

“May the king’s consort / have long life, wealth, and joy; / may her life, when it ends, endure always / and never be extinguished. / By her expedient means / I have accomplished what was to be done.”

Kunāla’s wife, hearing that her husband had lost his eyes, saw him and fainted away, and was revived with sprinkled water; and she wept and spoke this verse:

“The light of his eyes was lovely; / seeing it before, I rejoiced. / Seeing now that it has left his body, / a great affliction arises in my heart.”

Kunāla said to his wife: do not weep. It was I myself who created the deed and I myself who receive this result. And he spoke another verse:

“All the world / receives a body according to its deeds; / the many sufferings are the body — / you should know this. / All that comes together / is without exception parted. / Knowing this thing, / you should not weep.”

Kunāla and his wife returned from the country of Takṣaśilā to King Aśoka. The two of them had never in their lives set foot on the ground; their bodies were soft and unequal to labor. Kunāla was skilled at the lute and could sing and play the flute besides, and along the way home they begged their food and so kept themselves alive. Travelling little by little, they came at last to their own country.

He wished to enter the palace gate, but the gatekeeper would not let him pass; and, unable to pass, he turned back and went to stay in the stable of the chariot-horses. In the last watch of the night he played the lute and sang, and his song said: I have lost my eyes; I have seen the four truths. And he spoke another verse:

“If a person has wisdom / and comes to see the twelve sense-fields, / then with this lamp of wisdom / they are freed from the suffering of birth and death. / Whoever seeks the highest joy / should keep this in mind.”

The king heard the singing and was greatly delighted at heart, and spoke this verse:

“The verse now spoken, / and the lute I hear, / seem to be my son / Kunāla’s voice. / If he has come, / why does he not see me?”

The king ordered a man to listen: it seems to be Kunāla’s voice — clear, subtle, mournful, and fine, and it throws my heart into confusion; like an elephant that has lost its calf, I cast about and cannot be at ease. Go and look, and if it may be, bring him here.

The man went and saw him without either eye, his skin weathered and exposed, no longer recognizable, and came back and told the great king: it is a solitary blind man staying with his wife in the stable of the chariot-horses. The king, hearing this, was troubled and thought upon it, and spoke this verse:

“As in the dream I saw before, / Kunāla has lost his eyes. / This blind man now / is Kunāla beyond doubt. / Go once more to that place, / and simply bring this man here. / For thinking on my son / my heart is not at peace.”

The man received the instruction and went again to him, and said to Kunāla: whose son are you, and what are your name and clan? Kunāla answered with a verse:

“My father’s name is Aśoka, / the Increaser, of the Peacock clan; / all the great earth / is under his rule. / I am that king’s son, / named Kunāla; / my clan is the Sun, the Dharma-king Buddha, / and I am now a son of the Dharma-king.”

The man brought Kunāla and his wife into the palace. When the king saw Kunāla — weathered by wind and sun, dressed in grass and rags of every sort, his form so altered as to be unrecognizable — the king’s heart doubted, and he said to him: are you Kunāla? He answered: I am. The king fainted and fell to the ground. Those beside him, seeing the king, spoke this verse:

“The king saw Kunāla — / a face, and no eyes in it; / anguish burned his heart, / and he fell from the couch to the ground.”

Those beside him sprinkled the king with water, and he revived, and returned to his seat, and drew Kunāla onto his knees and held his neck, weeping and shedding tears, brushing his hand over his head and face, remembering how he had looked before; and he spoke this verse:

“Your grave and beautiful eyes — / where are they now? / The cause of the loss of your eyes / you must tell me now. / You are now without eyes, / like a sky with no moon. / Your form is altered — / whose doing is this? / Your appearance of old / was like a sage’s; / who was so without compassion / as to ruin your eyes? / In this world / who is your enemy — / the root of my anguish / arises from it. / Your body’s fine color — / whose doing is its ruin? / The fire of anguish in my heart / now burns my body, / as a thunderbolt / snaps and splits a tree; / the thunder of anguish / has broken my heart. / Tell me quickly now / how this came about.”

Then Kunāla answered with a verse:

“Has the king not heard the Buddha’s word, / that the fruit of deeds cannot be told; / that even a pratyekabuddha / cannot escape it? / All ordinary beings / are made by their own deeds; / the karmic condition of good and evil deeds, / when the time comes, must be received. / All living beings / do it themselves and receive their own result. / Because I know this cause, / I do not name the one who ruined my eyes. / This suffering I made myself, / and there is no other maker of it. / This cause of the eyes / was not made by any person; / the suffering of all beings / is likewise just the same, / all born of deeds. / The king should know this thing.”

The king spoke another verse:

“Only tell me the person; / I shall not give rise to anger. / If you do not tell me, / my mind is disordered and not at peace.”

Then the king knew that it was Tiṣyarakṣitā who had done it, and summoned Tiṣyarakṣitā and spoke this verse:

“You have now done a great evil — / how is it the earth does not swallow you? / You now act against the Dharma, / and this is a great wrong against me. / Since you have now done evil, / from today I cast you off, / as one who practices good / casts off gain that is not according to the Dharma.”

The king, burning with the fire of anger, saw Tiṣyarakṣitā and spoke another verse:

“I today / would take out her eyes; / would take an iron saw / and cut her body apart; / break her body with an axe, / slice her tongue with a blade, / cut off her neck with a blade, / burn her body with fire, / make her drink poison / and so take away her life.”

When the king said such things, meaning to punish Tiṣyarakṣitā, Kunāla heard, and a deep compassion arose in him, and he spoke another verse:

“The evil deeds Tiṣyarakṣitā / has done — / the great king today / should not simply kill her for them. / Of all great powers / none surpasses patience; / this the World-Honored One declared / to be the first of all.”

The king did not accept his son’s words. He put Tiṣyarakṣitā in a wattle house and burned her with fire, and further had the people of Takṣaśilā killed.

At this the monks were struck with doubt, and asked the venerable Upagupta: what deed did Kunāla do before, that he receives this result now? He answered: long ago in the kingdom of Vārāṇasī there was a hunter who went into the Snow Mountains and killed many herds of deer. Going into the Snow Mountains again, he met with thunder and lightning; and five hundred deer, in their terror, went into a stone cave, and the hunter caught them and took every one. If he killed them all the flesh would rot and stink, and there was nothing to be done — so he gouged out both eyes of each, so that they should not die and yet could not get away, and afterward killed them by degrees.

That earlier hunter is Kunāla. For countless years he was in hell; and, coming out of hell and being born among humans, for five hundred lives his eyes were always gouged out. This is the last remaining portion of that result.

The monks asked further: by what cause and condition was he born into a great clan with eyes so grave and beautiful? He answered: in the far distant past, when the human lifespan was forty thousand years, a buddha named Krakucchanda appeared in the world and entered nirvāṇa without remainder. There was then a king named Shūpō (which in the language of Liang means “Adorned”), who raised a stūpa of the four treasures for that buddha. When that king died, his younger brother did not believe in the Buddha, and dug out and took away everything beneath the stūpa, leaving only earth and timber. All the people, seeing the stūpa ruined, cried out in anguish. Then the sons of the elders asked: why are these people in anguish? The people answered: the World-Honored One’s stūpa originally had the four treasures, and now they are all ruined and destroyed.

Then the elders’ sons adorned it again with the four treasures as before, and made it higher and broader and finer than at first, and set a golden image within the stūpa. When this was done, they made a vow: the Buddha Krakucchanda was in his own time a teacher of the world; may my later teacher be as he is today. Monks, know this: the elder’s son of that time is Kunāla. Because he repaired the stūpa of the Tathāgata Krakucchanda he was born into a great clan; because he made an image of the Tathāgata his present body is the most grave and beautiful; and because he made a vow to meet a good teacher, he has now met Śākyamuni and has seen the four truths (Source: the Aśokāvadāna, fascicle 4).

Long ago the Buddha was at the deer park in the kingdom of Vārāṇasī, teaching the Dharma to the assembly. At that time the crown prince of a great kingdom, together with more than five hundred heirs of lesser kings, came to where the Buddha was, made obeisance to him, sat to one side, and listened to the teaching.

The princes said to the Buddha: the buddha-path is pure and subtle, profound and remote and hard to reach. Since ancient times, have there been kings, crown princes, great ministers, or sons of elders who have given up kingdom, officials, people, affection, and glory to go forth as śramaṇas?

The Buddha said: the glory, pleasure, and affection of the countries of this world are like an illusion, a dream, an echo — they come suddenly and go suddenly and cannot be held for long. And he said further: a king’s crown prince, for three reasons, cannot attain the path. Which three? First, arrogance and license, giving no thought to study of the sūtras’ subtle meaning, by which the root of the spirit is nourished. Second, greed and grasping, giving no thought to the giving that relieves the poor and endangered, and not sharing with the people the wealth and treasure of his ministers and officers, by which the root of wealth is cultivated. Third, an inability to distance himself from lust and the objects of desire, to cast off the prison of grief and vexation, and to go forth as a śramaṇa and extinguish the many sufferings and difficulties, by which the root of the body is cultivated. It is therefore that when a bodhisattva is born as a king, he removes these three things and so comes of himself to buddhahood.

There are also three further things. First, while young and strong, to study and to administer the land, leading the common people to practice the ten wholesome deeds. Second, in the middle of life, to give wealth to the poor, the orphaned, and the widowed, and to rejoice together with ministers, officers, and people alike. Third, always to reckon on impermanence and that this life will not remain long, and so, rightly, to go forth and become a śramaṇa, cutting off the causes and conditions of suffering and not returning to birth and death again. If these three are not practiced, one gets only the ordinary death.

The World-Honored One said: long ago, in a former life, I was a wheel-turning sage-king named Nán, with the seven treasures going before me. I thought to myself: human life is short and impermanence hard to guard against; I should only make merit, and so seek what is truly the path. Thinking always of giving, I shared with the people all the wealth and goods of the world’s people, and, having planted merit thereby, I had only to go forth as a śramaṇa and cut off greed and desire, and so extinguish suffering.

Combing my hair I found a white one, plucked it out, and set it on the table, and wept, saying: the first messenger has suddenly come. It is right that I go forth and become a śramaṇa and seek the natural path. And, holding the hair in my palm, I spoke this verse of my own:

“Upon my head today / a white hair has come to be my covering. / The heavenly messenger has called me already; / now is the proper time to go forth.”

He went forth as a śramaṇa and entered the mountains to practice the path, and lived out a man’s span; and then was reborn in the second heaven as the crown prince of Śakra. Afterward he governed the world below just as the great king had done, saw a white hair again, and went forth as a śramaṇa. Passing through lives as father and son, above as Śakra, below as a sage-king, and in between as a crown prince, thirty-six times over in each role, for many thousands of tens of thousands of years, ending and beginning again — by practicing these three things he came of himself to buddhahood.

The father of that time is now myself; the crown prince is Śāriputra; the grandson-king is Ānanda. Being born from one another in turn, they became kings one after another and transformed the world. At that time the crown prince of the kingdom and all the people rejoiced greatly, received the Buddha’s five precepts as lay followers, and attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Sūtra of Dharmapada Parables, fascicle 5).

Long ago King Prasenajit had two consorts. The son of the first consort was named Virūḍhaka; the son of the second consort was named Jeta (which in the language of Liang means “Most Victorious”).

On the day Jeta was born, treasures were offered from the four directions and arrived all at once. The king said: of all my sons born, there has never been anything like this. He may be named Jeta.

Growing up, he studied, and there was no text he did not master. The king had a separate residence built for him, made of the seven treasures, with figures of men and women in gold and silver to left and right of the gate, holding treasure-bowls filled with the seven precious things; and though these were carried away day and night, they filled up again as before.

The crown prince, out of jealousy, sent troops to seize them. But there were more than five hundred divine horsemen guarding Jeta’s residence, and when Virūḍhaka’s soldiers saw them they took fright and withdrew.

The crown prince was angry. When Jeta came, he asked him: I sent troops by night to greet you courteously, and you had soldiers lying in ambush inside — do you mean to rebel? Jeta said: I would not dare. I keep no civil or military retainers; inside there is not an inch of weaponry. Virūḍhaka sent men to search, and inside and out there was nothing at all.

Virūḍhaka’s mind was set at ease, and he reported the whole matter to the Buddha. The Buddha said: the virtue Jeta has planted meets with a firm cause, and for that reason it cannot be taken from him. In the time of the Buddha Vipaśyin, a man went to a monastery and fed the saṅgha, and afterward gave one manservant and one maidservant to sweep the temple. From then on, in heaven and among humans, he received measureless blessings. That man is Jeta (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra, fascicle 1).