Birds and Creeping Creatures

There are four kinds of garuḍa: the first born from eggs, the second from a womb, the third from moisture, the fourth spontaneously. All of them formerly gave greatly and their minds were lofty and overrode others; they tormented beings and their minds were full of anger and arrogance, and so were born among these birds. They have wish-fulfilling jewels for necklaces, and their transformations are of ten thousand kinds and there is nothing they cannot manage.

Their bodies are forty li high; their clothing is eighty li broad and forty li long and weighs two and a half taels. They eat soft-shelled turtles, alligators, fish, and hard-shelled turtles as their coarse food (the Nirvāṇa Sūtra says they can eat and digest all nāgas and fish and gold and silver and other treasures, excepting only diamond), and bathing and clothing are their subtle food. They also marry: the two bodies touch and so the yin and yang are accomplished. Their lifespan is a kalpa, though for some it is less.

On the north shore of the great sea there is a tree named Kūluóchēnmó, a hundred yojanas high with a shade fifty yojanas broad (the Lokasthāna Sūtra is roughly the same). East of the tree are the palaces of the egg-born nāgas and the egg-born garuḍas; south of the tree the palaces of the womb-born nāgas and the womb-born garuḍas; west of the tree the palaces of the moisture-born nāgas and the moisture-born garuḍas; north of the tree the palaces of the spontaneously born nāgas and the spontaneously born garuḍas. Each is six thousand yojanas across, adorned as above.

If an egg-born garuḍa flies down into the sea and beats the water with its wings, the water parts in two to a depth of two hundred yojanas, and it takes an egg-born nāga and eats it as it pleases (the Avataṃsaka Sūtra says: this bird eats nāgas, and the wind of its fanning, if it enters a person’s eye, blinds them, and therefore it does not come among humans). And so with the womb-born, moisture-born, and spontaneously born (the Nirvāṇa Sūtra says: only those who have taken the three refuges it cannot eat).

There was a spontaneously born nāga prince who on the three fast days took the fast of the eight prohibitions; and when a garuḍa meant to take and eat him, it carried him up onto a great iron tree north of Mount Sumeru, a hundred and sixty thousand li high, and looked for his tail and could not find it at all. And the bird, hearing of it, likewise took the five precepts (Source: Dīrgha Āgama, fascicle 19; also Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 15; the Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom and the Avataṃsaka Sūtra also have it).

There is a garuḍa king named True Sound, who among the feathered kinds is happy and free. In Jambudvīpa he eats one nāga king and five hundred lesser nāgas a day, and in the four continents he eats besides, the daily number being as above, going round and beginning again.

After eight thousand years the signs of death appeared in him, and the nāgas spat venom and he could get nothing to eat; and pressed by hunger and in panic he was never at peace. He came to the Vajra Mountain, and from the Vajra Mountain went straight down to the edge of the great waters, and to the edge of the wind-wheel, and was blown by the wind back to the Vajra Mountain; and so seven times over, and then his life ended.

Because of his venom the ten jewel mountains all took fire at once, and the nāga king Nanda, fearing these mountains would burn, sent down a great rain whose drops were like cartwheels. The bird’s flesh was entirely dissolved and only the heart remained; and the heart too went straight down and back seven times as before and came to rest on the Vajra Mountain. The nāga king Nanda took it for a bright pearl, and a wheel-turning sage-king obtains it as a wish-fulfilling jewel. And if a person keeps the Buddha in mind, the mind is likewise (Source: Sūtra on the Samādhi of Contemplating the Buddha, fascicle 1).

The qiānqiū has a human face and a bird’s body, and when it bears young it harms its mother in the process. It can further study and attain the fruit of arhatship. Animals have not the intelligence for this, nor the notion of honoured and base; they do not incur the offense of the five heinous crimes (Source: Vasumitra Treatise, fascicle 8).

By the side of the Monkey River at Vaiśālī there was a garlic garden, and the nun Sthūlanandā lived not far from the garden. The garden owner asked her: does the venerable lady want garlic? And the nun, with the novice nuns and the probationers, went again and again to ask for garlic until it was all gone; and the owner abandoned the garden and went away.

The Buddha told the former birth. Long ago there was a brahmin a hundred and twenty years old, thin and worn in body, whose wife was beautiful beyond compare and who had borne many sons and daughters; and this brahmin bound his mind to his wife and his sons and daughters and from the first would not leave them.

By this deep attachment of love he came at last to the end of his life and was born among geese, and the feathers of his body were all gold-colored; and because of that former cause of merit he knew his past lives of himself: by what means shall I keep these children so that they are not poor and hard-pressed? So day after day he came back and let one feather fall and went.

His children, seeing this and not knowing the cause, conferred together: we may as well watch for him when he comes and find a way to catch him and take all the golden feathers. And as they planned, they pulled out all the golden feathers; and when the feathers were gone, white feathers grew in their place.

The Buddha told the monks: would you know the brahmin who died and became a goose? Was he another? He is the garden owner. His beautiful wife is that nun; the sons and daughters are the probationers and novice nuns (Source: Dharmaguptaka Vinaya, second division, fascicle 3).

The Buddha was in the kingdom of Vārāṇasī, in a wooded marsh, setting out the fine Dharma for the gods and men and the fourfold assembly. At that time in the open sky there was a flock of five hundred geese who heard the Buddha’s voice and loved it deeply in their hearts and wheeled round meaning to come down; and a hunter had spread a net and the geese fell into it and were killed by the hunter, and were born in the Trāyastriṃśa heaven.

On the knees of their heavenly parents they were like eight-year-old children, grave and beautiful beyond compare, their light like a golden mountain; and they thought: by what cause am I born here? And they knew their former lives and the fruit of loving the Dharma.

So they took flowers together and came down to Jambudvīpa, and came to the World-Honored One and bowed at his feet and said: by your grace, having heard the sound of the Dharma we were born in a fine heaven; we ask you to open it out for us again. The Buddha taught the four truths and they obtained the fruit of stream-entry, and returned to heaven (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 13).

A king’s consort went up on a tower and saw geese flying in the sky and wished to have their flesh, and told the king; and the king sent a hunter with a net to spread it and search, and he got several dozen and kept them in a cage.

Among them was one that would not eat, and the other geese said: we are alive now — what good does not eating do? The one that would not eat said: from grief I cannot eat. In seven days it was so thin that it got out through a hole in the cage and flew away, and said from a distance to the fat ones: you gentlemen are greedy for food, and the pain of it comes after (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra, fascicle 6).

In Amitābha’s land there are constantly rare and wonderful birds of many colors — white swans, peacocks, parrots, śārikas, kalaviṅkas, and jīvañjīvakas — which six times day and night put forth a harmonious and refined sound; and what that sound says is the five faculties, the five powers, the seven factors of enlightenment, the eightfold noble path, and dharmas such as these. And the beings of that land, hearing that sound, all keep the Three Jewels in mind (Source: Amitābha Sūtra).

Long ago on the Snow Mountains there was a dove. There was a great fall of rain and snow, and a man had lost the road and was in the extremity of hardship, with hunger and cold together upon him and his life hanging by a moment. The dove flew and sought fire and gathered firewood for him and lit it; and when it was lit, it threw its own body into the fire and gave it to this hungry man (Source: Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom, fascicle 11).

The Buddha was in the Jetavana grove walking in the late afternoon, and Śāriputra was with him. Then a hawk was pursuing a dove, and the dove flew to the Buddha’s side, and the shadow of the Buddha as he walked covered it, and the dove’s body was at ease and its fear was removed and it made no more sound. Afterward Śāriputra’s shadow reached it, and the dove made a sound and trembled in terror as before.

Śāriputra said to the Buddha: the Buddha and I are both without the three poisons; the Buddha’s shadow covered the dove and the dove was not afraid, and my shadow covered the dove and it trembled as before. The Buddha said: you still have the residue of the three poisons.

Observe this dove: how many lives has it been a dove? Śāriputra entered the samādhi of the knowledge of past lives and looked, and saw that this dove had been a dove constantly for eighty thousand great kalpas, and beyond that he could not see.

The Buddha said: if you cannot know the past entirely, try to observe when this dove will be free of it. Śāriputra entered the samādhi of the knowledge of wishes and looked, and saw that for eighty thousand great kalpas this dove would not be free of the dove’s body, and beyond that he did not know. Through great kalpas as numerous as the sands of the Ganges it is constantly a dove (Source: Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom, fascicle 11).

Long ago a wildfire was burning a wood, and in the wood there was a pheasant who exerted its own strength and flew into the wood and sprinkled water on it, and went back and forth exhausted and did not count it hard.

Then Śakra, lord of the gods, came and asked it: what are you doing? It answered: I am saving this wood, out of pity for beings. This wood shelters and nourishes a wide space and is cool and pleasant, and all my kinds and all my kin depend on it. I have bodily strength; how should I be idle and not save it?

Śakra asked: with such diligence, how long will you keep at it? The pheasant said: until death is my term. Śakra said: who will bear witness for you? And it made this vow of itself: if my mind is wholly sincere and my faith is not false, let the fire go out of itself. At this the gods of the Pure Abodes knew the pheasant’s great vow, and put out the fire for it; and from beginning to end the wood was always lush and was not burned by fire (Source: Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom, fascicle 16).

King Prasenajit had four great ministers whom he appointed generals, and they combined the four divisions of the army meaning to attack a small kingdom. The four ministers saw the Buddha and bowed their heads at his feet, and the World-Honored One asked: where are you going, gentlemen? And they told him the whole matter: our persons have been much advanced by this king, and we constantly fear for our lives; now we go to attack.

The World-Honored One praised them: excellent, worthy sirs; this is repaying kindness and showing reciprocity. And it is not only in this present life that you have done so for this king.

In a past age, in the kingdom of Sāgara, a company of crows came and gathered and settled in that country; the crow king was named Sugarcane and was lord of eighty thousand crows. The crow king had a wife named Jiùlínì who, being with child and having an aversion to food, said to the king in earnest: my body is a little unwell and I want something tender; if I eat the flesh of a deer king I shall live, and if not I shall die.

So the crow king heard her voice and assembled the crows: you should go to the kingdom of Sāgara. The king of Sāgara has a great deer king named Xūjù, and she wishes to have his flesh. Four crows answered the call: we are equal to it; we shall not begrudge our bodies and lives and shall accomplish this business.

Then the four crows came again and again to that assembly-place; and the king’s son, seeing the crows, was frightened and ran back and told the king: I have seen four crows of such and such color and shape, coming again and again to the deer park.

The king ordered men to catch them, and the fowlers contrived means and spread nets and caught the crows and took them alive to the king. The king questioned the four crows and scolded them: why do you come here again and again and trespass on my borders?

The crows said: yes, heavenly king, but it is not of our own liking. There is a king named Settled-Dwelling whose wife has conceived and wants the flesh of the deer Xūjù, tender and good; and that king sent us, and we have received our lord’s command.

Then the king was astonished at it and wondered: to receive a king’s command of your own accord and make such a plan and throw away your bodies and lives — this is truly beyond me. To look for such reciprocity in ordinary people, receiving the instruction of lord and father, is still not to be had — how much less in birds and beasts. And the king told the crows: I now pardon your offense (Source: Sūtra of Honey-Complete, also called the Sūtra of the Crow King of the Kingdom of Kosala).

Long ago there was a crow named Jūqí (which in the language of Liang is red-billed crow), who lived in a thicket and bore young in the trees. At that time Jūqí was on close terms with a monkey.

In that thicket there was a venomous snake, which watched until she was away and ate Jūqí’s young and left nothing at all. Jūqí, having lost her young, cried out in grief and did not know where they were, and, thinking it over, knew that the snake had eaten them.

The monkey came back and saw her and asked what was the matter, and she answered: a snake has eaten my young entirely and left nothing. The monkey said: I shall repay it.

When the venomous snake went abroad, the monkey went and coiled around in front of it, and the snake in anger wrapped itself round the monkey; and the monkey seized its head and dragged it to a rock and ground it until it broke and died, and threw it away and came back. And Jūqí leapt for joy (Source: Sūtra of the Parable of the Red-Billed Crow).

In a past age there was a flock of fowls living in a hazel wood, and a wildcat came and ate them and only one hen was left; and a crow came and covered her and together they bore one chick. When the chick made a sound the crow spoke this verse:

“This child is not mine: / a wild father and a village mother / joined together and bore a child / that is neither crow nor fowl. / If it would learn its father’s voice, / it was born of a fowl besides; / if it would learn its mother’s cry, / its father again is a crow. / Learning the crow, it seems to crow like a fowl; / learning the fowl, it makes a crow’s sound. / If it learns crow and fowl together, / neither of the two comes off.” (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 24)

In a far distant age a eunuch died and was thrown away among the chumpaka trees, and a fox and a crow came together to eat the flesh, and praised each other. The crow said:

“Your body is like a lion’s / and your head like a sage’s; / you were conceived among the king of deer — / how fine, like a lovely flower.”

The fox said:

“Who is the honoured one up in the tree, / whose wisdom is first of all, / whose brightness shines over the ten directions / like a heap of purple-gold?”

At that time a great sage was dwelling in seclusion, purely cultivating the path; and hearing them he spoke a verse and asked:

“What you do I have long seen; / the thing is double-tongued flattery. / You hide yourselves among the trees / eating the flesh of a dead eunuch. / You are base and lowly creatures, / and call each other as though you were superior men.”

The crow said:

“The lion and the peacock / eat the flesh of birds; / what apology is there for a shaven head, / going in order and begging?” (Source: Sūtra of the Worm, the Fox, and the Crow)

There are four kinds of nāga: the first born from eggs, the second from a womb, the third from moisture, the fourth spontaneously. All of them formerly had much anger and their minds were crooked and not upright, and they greatly practiced giving, and so they now receive this form. Their palaces are of the seven treasures (where the palaces are has been set out under the garuḍas).

Their bodies are forty li high; their clothing is forty li long and eighty li broad and weighs two and a half taels. Their divine power is free and they have food and drink of a hundred flavors, and the last mouthful turns into a toad. If one transforms one’s own retinue and gives rise in them to the mind of the path, and gives dark robes to beggars and can make the nāgas each raise offerings, then sand does not rain on the body and one is free of the many troubles (it is also said: transforming the body into a snake or viper and the rest, one does not meet with the toad or the garuḍa).

They eat soft-shelled turtles, alligators, fish, and hard-shelled turtles as coarse food (the Lokasthāna Sūtra says nāgas eat fish and turtles and the great fish tíwéi and tílì), and bathing and clothing are their subtle food. They also marry: the bodies touch and so the yin and yang are accomplished. Their lifespan is a kalpa, though for some it is less.

Escaping the garuḍas’ eating, there are only sixteen kings: the first Sāgara, the second Nanda, the third Upananda, the fourth Aina­vara, the fifth Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the sixth Sudarśana, the seventh Āxū, the eighth Jiājùluó, the ninth Kapila, the tenth Apalāla, the eleventh Jiānòu, the twelfth Qújiānòu, the thirteenth Anavatapta, the fourteenth Good Dwelling, the fifteenth Yōushǎn-gāpádōu, the sixteenth Takṣaka (Lokasthāna Sūtra, sixty-three; from the Dīrgha Āgama, the Lokasthāna, and the Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom).

The nāga king Sāgara dwells at the bottom of the great sea north of Mount Sumeru. His palace is eighty thousand yojanas across, made of the seven treasures, with walls of seven layers, railings and nets adorning them above, gardens and bathing pools with birds of every kind singing in harmony, gold walls and silver gates; and the gate is two thousand four hundred li high and two thousand two hundred li broad, painted in colors and beautiful.

He is constantly guarded by five hundred ghost-spirits, and can send down rain as he wills, which the other nāgas cannot equal; and the deep pool where he dwells flows out and enters the sea, of a blue lapis color (Source: the Lokasthāna and Avataṃsaka Sūtras).

A nāga king said to the Buddha: I have dwelt in the great sea since the beginning of the kalpa. In the time of the Buddha Krakucchanda my wives and children in the great sea were very few, and now the sea-nāgas’ kin are many.

The Buddha told the nāga king: those who go forth in the Buddha’s Dharma and go against the precepts and offend in their conduct and do not give up their broken precepts are for the most part born among nāgas. Holding right view they do not fall into hell; such as these, when their lives end, are all born among nāgas.

The Buddha told the nāga king: in the time of the Buddha Krakucchanda, nine billion eight hundred million householders and renunciants went against the prohibitions and were all born among nāgas. In the time of the Buddha Kanakamuni, eight billion householders and renunciants broke the precepts and indulged their minds, and when their lives ended were all born among nāgas. In the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa, six billion four hundred million householders and renunciants offended against the precepts and were all born among nāgas. In my own age, ninety-nine billion householders have quarrelled and slandered the sūtras and precepts and die and are born among nāgas, and some are already born.

For this reason the nāgas’ wives, children, and kin in the great sea cannot be reckoned. After my nirvāṇa there will be many evil lay followers who go against and lose the prohibitions and will be born among nāgas, or fall into hell (Source: Sūtra of the Sea-Nāga King, fascicle 2).

A mightily venomous nāga could kill the weak with a look of his eye and kill the strong with a breath from his mouth. At one time this nāga took the one-day precepts, and went out and entered among the forest trees to reflect; and, sitting long, he grew tired and slack and slept. It is the law of nāgas that in sleep their form is like a snake’s, of the seven treasures in mixed colors.

A hunter saw him and said in startled delight: with a skin so rare and hard to come by, to present it to the king of the country for a boat-ornament — would that not be fitting? And he pressed the head down with a staff and stripped off the skin with a knife.

The nāga thought to himself: my strength could overturn a kingdom, and how should this one small thing trouble me? But because I now hold the precepts I take no account of this body; I shall follow the Buddha’s word and bear it of myself. And he shut his eyes and did not look, and held his breath and did not breathe, and pitied this man; and for the sake of holding the precepts he single-mindedly received the flaying and gave rise to no thought of regret.

Having lost his skin, his red flesh lay on the ground, and the day was very hot and he rolled about in the dirt; and wishing to go toward a great water, he saw small insects come and eat his body, and, for the sake of holding the precepts, dared not move again. And he thought: I now give this body of mine to the insects, for the sake of the buddha-path; now I give flesh to fill their bodies, and afterward shall give the Dharma to enrich their minds. And his body dried and his life ended, and he was at once born in the Trāyastriṃśa heaven (Source: Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom, fascicle 14).

There were nāga kings, the first named Indrawn-Breath, the second Great Indrawn-Breath, the third Able-to-Net, the fourth Measureless-Color, who said to the World-Honored One: in this sea there are countless kinds of nāga, and there are four kinds of garuḍa who constantly eat the nāgas of the sea. We ask the Buddha to protect us and let us be at ease and not harbour grief and fear.

The World-Honored One took off the dark robe from his body and told the sea-nāga king: you should take this dark robe of the Tathāgata and divide it among the nāgas and let it go all round. Whoever in the great sea comes by one thread of it, the garuḍa kings cannot touch or offend. What the Buddha establishes is inconceivable, and his lofty virtue is such as this.

Then the sea-nāga king took the Buddha’s robe and divided it among the nāga kings, and according to what each lacked, broad or narrow, large or small, it supplied them of itself, and the robe was as it had been and could never be used up. Then the sea-nāga king told the nāga kings: you should revere this robe as you revere the World-Honored One, and after his nirvāṇa make offerings to his relics and serve the World-Honored One with all the requisites.

The four garuḍa kings, hearing what the Buddha had established, were alarmed, and went in haste to where the Buddha was and bowed their heads at his feet: why has the World-Honored One taken away our food?

The Buddha said: there are four foods in all, and by sitting in them one goes to three places. Which four? First, netting and hunting birds and beasts and cruelly destroying the herds, killing life and wronging it in order to have food and drink. Second, taking up arms, blades and spears, hacking and stabbing, pressing and shooting, robbing others of their goods and using them for food and drink. Third, by miserliness and flattery, disorderly offending against the prohibitions, wrong views and cunning deceit, so getting food. Fourth, being no teacher and calling oneself a teacher, being no world-honored one and calling oneself so, following the wrong and calling it right, being no ascetic and calling oneself an ascetic, being not pure and calling oneself pure, not practicing the holy life and calling it so — praising oneself and seeking falsely, and so getting food. These are the four foods, and by sitting in them one goes to hell, to hungry ghosts, and to animals, the three evil places.

The Dharma I teach removes these four foods; one should not nourish the body by harming beings. If you would guard your own body, guard others; what should not be done, be careful not to do.

Then the four garuḍa kings, each with a thousand of their retinue, said to the Buddha: today we take refuge in the Buddha and the Dharma and the community of monks, and confess and repent the calamities we have offended in before. From this day we shall uphold the prohibitions, and give fearlessness to all the nāga kings, and protect the right Dharma as long as the Buddha’s Dharma abides, and follow the Dharma of the path to its exhaustion and not go against the Buddha’s teaching (Source: Sūtra of the Sea-Nāga King, fascicle 4).

Long ago in Jambudvīpa there was a kingdom named Vārāṇasī, in which there was a man who loved yellow gold especially, and who wore out his body seeking it and got seven jars of gold and buried them in the earth and never clothed or fed himself with them, and met with illness and died.

His greed and love being heavy, he changed his body and became a venomous snake, and coiled around the gold jars; and when he died he was born again, and this went on for tens of thousands of years. Afterward he thought to himself and suddenly awoke: it is precisely for gold that I receive this evil recompense. I should give it away in a field of merit and seek a good place.

So he came out to the roadside and saw a brahmin and said: I have a jar of gold, and I entrust it to you to feed the community of monks. If you do not do it for me I shall kill you. The brahmin said: I can do it for you. The snake brought out the gold and gave it to him.

He took it at once to a monastery and told the monks the whole matter and set out the snake’s wish to make an offering, and the monks agreed; and he took the gold and handed it to the manager, and the manager arranged the meal.

When the day drew near, the brahmin went to the snake with a small basket, and the snake, seeing him, was glad and coiled into the basket at once; and the brahmin covered it with cloth and carried it toward the monastery. People on the road, seeing it, gave much money and sent it to his house.

On the appointed day he invited the worthy and holy monks and set out food. When the assembly was over, he went forward to the monastery and set the snake down in front of the monks and stood in the passage, and had the brahmin carry the food round in order so that it could see; and with a believing mind it watched those who received the food and gazed at them without moving.

When the business was over the snake’s reverent mind grew and it was not satisfied; and when the monks had eaten they taught it the Dharma besides, and the snake gave away all seven jars of gold and had the manager take them for offerings — and it left its evil form and was born in the Trāyastriṃśa heaven (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 4).

Long ago there was a snake whose head and tail quarrelled. The head said to the tail: I ought to be the greater. The tail said to the head: I ought to be the greater.

The head said: I have ears and can hear, and eyes and can see, and a mouth and can eat; and when we go I am in front. Therefore I may be the greater. You have none of these arts.

The tail said: it is because I let you go that you can go. And it wrapped its body three times around a tree and did not stop for three days, and they could not seek food and were faint with hunger and near death.

The head said to the tail: let go, and I grant that you are the greater. The tail, hearing these words, let go at once; and it said to the tail again: since you are the greater, I grant that you go in front. And the tail went in front, and before it had gone a few steps it fell into a fire pit and died.

Long ago there was a snake, and with a frog and a turtle in one pond they were friends together. Afterward the water of the pond dried up entirely, and, hungry and destitute and worn out, they had no one to appeal to. Then the snake sent the turtle to call the frog, saying:

“If one meets with poverty and loses one’s original mind, / one does not consider the original friendship, and food comes first.”

The frog said:

“Take my voice and say to the snake: / the frog will never come to your side.” (Source: Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom, fascicle 12)

He told the monks: it is as if in the great sea there were a blind turtle of measureless kalpas of life, who once in a hundred years comes up and puts out his head; and there is a floating log with just one hole in it, drifting on the ocean waves and going east and west as the wind takes it. The blind turtle comes up once in a hundred years and may meet with this hole; the log may be in the east of the sea, and the turtle away in the west of it, and so likewise round about.

Though they may miss each other, they may also come together. For an ordinary person drifting in the sea of the five destinies to come back to a human body is harder than this (Source: Saṃyukta Āgama, fascicle 16).

The Buddha and the monks went toward Vaiśālī and came to the Lí-yuè River. By the river there were five hundred cowherds and five hundred fishermen, and the Buddha sat down to rest not far from the river.

Then the fishermen caught a fish in their net, and five hundred men pulling could not get it out; and they called the crowd of cowherds too, and a thousand men together with their strength got out one great fish, whose body had a hundred heads of several kinds — donkey, horse, camel, tiger, wolf, pig, dog, ape, monkey, fox, and the like — and the crowd wondered greatly and came together to look at it.

The World-Honored One at once went to where the fish was and asked the fish: are you Kapila? And so three times, and each time it answered that it was. He asked again: those you taught — where are they now? It answered: fallen into the Avīci hell.

Ānanda said: why does he now call this hundred-headed fish Kapila? The Buddha said: in the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa there was a brahmin who bore a son named Kapila (which in the language of Liang is Yellow-Head), intelligent and broadly learned, first among his kind in learning — only he was not equal to the śramaṇas.

As his father was dying he earnestly charged him: be careful not to debate the principles of the path with the śramaṇas of Kāśyapa. And why? Because the śramaṇas’ wisdom is deep and you would surely not be their equal.

After his father died his mother asked him: you were formerly of high understanding; is there now anyone who surpasses you? He answered: the śramaṇas are far superior to me. His mother asked again: how are they superior? He answered: when they have a doubt they go and ask the Buddha, who can open and resolve it; and if they ask me, I cannot answer.

His mother said again: why not study their Dharma? He answered: to study their Dharma properly one should become a śramaṇa; I am a layman, and how should I get to study it? His mother said again: pretend to be a śramaṇa, and when you have studied their Dharma and mastered it, come back home.

He obeyed his mother’s instruction and became a monk, and after a short while he had recited the three collections and mastered their meaning and principles. His mother asked him: have you got the better of them now? He answered: in learning I am superior, but not in sitting in meditation. How do I know it? When I ask them, they can distinguish everything; when they ask me, I cannot know it. For this reason I am not yet their equal.

His mother said again: from now on, when you debate with them, if it should go against you, then revile them. Kapila said: renunciant śramaṇas have no fault; how should I revile them? She answered: only revile them and you will win.

Then Kapila could not bear to go against his mother; and afterward, when he debated principles again and came off short and was worsted, he would revile them: you are dull-witted and cannot distinguish anything, worse than animals. And he compared them to the heads of all the hundred beasts. And this was not once only; and by the fruit of that he now receives a fish’s body with a hundred heads.

Ānanda asked the Buddha: when will he be free of this fish’s body? The Buddha told Ānanda: in this Fortunate Kalpa a thousand buddhas will pass and he will still not be free of it. Then Ānanda and the crowd, hearing what the Buddha said, all with one voice said: one cannot but be careful in the conduct of body, speech, and mind.

Then the fishermen and the cowherds all together joined their palms toward the Buddha and asked to go forth and purely practice the holy life. The Buddha said: come — and their beards and hair fell away of themselves and the Dharma robes were on their bodies; and he taught them the fine Dharma and they became arhats (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 10).

The southern sea suddenly surged and a startling wave flooded in, and three great fish drifted into the channel of a small islet, and said to one another: we are hard pressed here, and while the flood water has not yet fallen we should go back up against it and return to the great sea. But they were blocked by the water and the islet and could not get over.

The first fish leapt with all its strength over the islet and got across; the next got over by resting on the grass; and the third, its strength and breath spent, was taken by a hunter. The Buddha saw it and spoke a verse:

“This day has already passed / and life is diminished with it. / Like a fish in shallow water — / what joy is there in this?” (Source: Chūyào jīng, fascicle 18)

In the Kāla pool there was a frog which heard the Buddha teaching the Dharma and came out of the pool and went in among the roots of the grass. At that time a cowherd saw a great crowd gathered round listening to the Buddha teach the Dharma, and came to where the Buddha was; and wishing to hear the Dharma he stuck his staff in the ground and by mistake put it through the frog’s head, and the frog died at once and was born in the Trāyastriṃśa heaven.

Seeing the music and the entertainers and their sounds, he reflected at once: I was formerly an animal; by what cause and condition am I born in this heavenly palace? And with the heavenly eye he looked and saw that he had earlier listened to the Buddha teach the Dharma by the pool, and that by this merit he had obtained this fruit. Then the frog-god rode his palace and went to where the Buddha was and bowed his head at his feet; and the Buddha taught him the Dharma and he obtained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Samantapāsādikā, fascicle 4).

Long ago a great household gathered a thousand bushels of grain and buried it in the ground; and coming in spring when it grew warm they opened it to take out seed, and saw no grain at all, but a worm as big as an ox-basket with no hands or feet and no head or eyes, like a lump of dull flesh.

The master and everyone, great and small, wondered at it, and brought it out and set it on level ground, and asked: what are you? And it said nothing at all. So he stuck an iron awl into one place on it, and it said: if you wish to know my name, take me and set me by the great road, and someone will name me of himself.

So they took it and set it by the road; and for three days no one could name it. Then there came several hundred carriages with yellow horses, the clothing and attendants all yellow; and they stopped their carriages and called out: Grain-Thief, what are you doing here? It answered: because I ate a man’s grain they have set me here. They talked a very long while and then took their leave and went.

The master asked Grain-Thief: who were those just now? He answered: they are the essence of gold and treasure, and they live three hundred paces and more west of here under a great tree, where there are a hundred stone jars full of gold. The master then took several tens of men and went and dug, and got the jars of gold, and the household rejoiced and carted it home.

And they bowed their heads before Grain-Thief: getting this gold today is by your great divine kindness; might you stay, divine one, and come home with us, and we shall set out offerings again? Grain-Thief said: earlier I ate your grain and did not tell you my name, because I wished you to obtain this recompense in gold; and now I must go on and make merit throughout the world and cannot stay any longer. And when he had said this he suddenly was not seen (Source: Parables Sūtra, fascicle 2).

At the southeast corner of the city of Rājagṛha there was a pool of standing water, into which the drains and filth of the city and all the excrement and urine ran, and it stank so that one could not come near.

There was a great worm born in that standing water, its body several fathoms long and having no hands or feet, which writhed and rose and dipped and played in the water; and several thousand people watched it. Ānanda, on alms round, saw it and went to look, and the worm leapt and the waves stirred and surged; and he reported it in full to the Buddha.

The Buddha and the monks went together to the pool, and the crowd, seeing the Buddha, each thought: today the Tathāgata will surely explain to the assembly this worm’s beginning and end and resolve everyone’s doubt — will that not be good?

The Buddha said: after the nirvāṇa of the Buddha Vipaśyin there was a stūpa and monastery, and five hundred monks passed through that monastery; and the monastery’s head, seeing them, was greatly delighted and asked them to stay and be provided for three months, and the whole company accepted. The head provided food with all his heart and left nothing out.

Afterward five hundred merchants who had gone to sea to gather treasure passed the stūpa and monastery on their way back, and, seeing the five hundred monks diligently practicing the path, each of them gave rise to the thought and gladly conferred together: a field of merit is hard to meet with; we should set out a modest offering. And they said so to the head of the monastery.

The head answered: I have invited them for three months and there are five days more before it is full, and then a great offering may be set out. The merchants said: we must go and cannot wait to the end. And the five hundred merchants each gave up one pearl, five hundred maṇi pearls in all, and entrusted them to the head of the monastery, charging him: when the days are full, use our pearls to provide for the community. The monk said: yes — and received them all.

Afterward he gave rise to an unwholesome mind and schemed to take them for himself, and in the end made no offering. The community of monks asked him: the merchants who came before gave pearls and an offering should be set out; and did you send them off? The head said: they were given to me. If you wish to take them from me, I may give you my dung; and if you do not go at once, I shall cut off your hands and feet and throw them into a dung pit. And the community, pitying his folly, kept silence and each went away (Source: Ten-Fascicle Parables Sūtra, fascicle 4).

In the far distant past, after the nirvāṇa of the Tathāgata Manifest-in-Response, in the age of the semblance Dharma, there was a monk sitting in meditation alone in a wood who constantly suffered from lice and nits; and he made an agreement with them: while I sit in meditation you should keep still. And his body being hidden and dwelling in stillness, the louse observed the rule.

Afterward, at one time, a flea came to the louse and asked: how is your body now so fat and full? The louse said: the master I depend on constantly cultivates meditative concentration, and he has taught me the times for eating and drinking; and because I keep the rule I am plump and glossy.

The flea said: I too wish to practice that method. The louse said: as you please. But the flea, smelling the fragrance of blood and flesh, at once ate and fed; and the monk was distressed and took off his robe and burned it with fire.

The monk sitting in meditation is the Buddha Kāśyapa; the flea is Devadatta; the louse is myself (Source: Sūtra on Repaying Kindness, fascicle 4).