King Bimbisāra's Disciples (I)

Buddhacarita, Chapter Sixteen: King Bimbisāra's Disciples

At that time, the five companions — Aśvajit and the rest — hearing the sound of Kauṇḍinya's own attainment of the Dharma, felt shame rise in themselves at their earlier doubt, and joined their palms in reverence, gazing up at the Buddha's honored countenance.

The Tathāgata, through his own skillful means, brought them one after another into the true Dharma, until all five companions had attained the path and mastered every one of their faculties, like five stars adorning the heavens, arrayed in attendance around the bright moon.

At that time, in the city of Kuśinagara, there was a rich merchant's son named Yaśas, who woke suddenly from sleep in the night and, beholding his own household — the men and women of it lying naked and asleep around him — was struck at once with a heart of weariness and revulsion, thinking to himself that this very affliction was the root cause that deceives and beguiles the foolish.

Dressing himself in fine robes and jeweled ornaments, he set out from home toward the mountain forest, crying aloud along the road as he went: "Torment! Torment! Torment!"

The Tathāgata, walking in meditation that same night, heard his cry of torment, and called out to him at once: "Come, then, and welcome — there is a place of true peace and safety here; nirvāṇa, cool and utterly tranquil, quiescent and free of every torment."

Yaśas, hearing the Buddha's own words, felt his heart fill with great joy; and, carried along by the very weariness and revulsion he already felt, a noble wisdom opened cool and clear within him, as though he had stepped into a refreshing pool, and he came, solemn and composed, to where the Buddha sat.

Though his body still bore the outward appearance of a layman, his heart had already exhausted every defiling outflow; and through the power of good roots he had planted in ages past, he swiftly attained the fruit of arhatship.

His pure wisdom, its truth hidden within him all along, needed only to hear the Dharma to awaken to it at once — as fresh, undyed silk takes on any color with ease.

Having thus come to know for himself that what needed to be done was already done, he looked down at his own body, still adorned in its fine ornaments, and felt a heart of shame rise within him.

The Tathāgata, knowing this thought of his, spoke to him these verses: "One may be adorned with jeweled ornaments, and yet have a mind that has fully mastered its own faculties, viewing all sentient beings with perfect equality, and practicing the Dharma without regard for outward appearance at all.

Conversely, one may wear the very robe of one gone forth from home, and yet still not have set aside the burdens of the heart — dwelling in the forest while still coveting worldly glory: such a person remains, in truth, no different from a layman.

Though one's outward form still shows the manner of a layman, if the heart dwells in a realm both high and excellent, then remaining at home is no different from dwelling in the mountain forest, since one has already departed from every thought of self and what belongs to the self.

Bondage and liberation reside in the heart alone — how could outward form possibly have any fixed and determining mark at all?

One dons armor and heavy robes of war thinking thereby to subdue a mighty enemy; in just this same way, one changes one's outward form and dons the dyed robe in order to subdue the very enemy that is one's own afflictions."

He then called Yaśas to come forward as a monk, and at once, in response to his very voice, every trace of Yaśas' lay appearance fell away, and he became complete in every mark of one gone forth from home, a true śramaṇa in every respect.

Yaśas had, from before, a circle of worldly companions numbering fifty-four; and these, following after their good friend's own going forth, entered the true Dharma in turn, one after another.

This came about entirely through good karma planted in former lives, its wondrous fruit now ripening at this very time — as when cloth long soaked and treated with pure ash needs only to pass through water once more to shine forth bright and clean at last.

To these sixty most excellent śrāvakas, now all arhats, the Buddha, in accordance with the very nature of arhatship, gave this instruction: "You have now crossed to the far shore of the river of birth and death; what needed to be done has been done, and you are each fit to receive any offering at all — you ought now to go, each of you, to travel through every kingdom, and deliver those not yet delivered.

Sentient beings burn in suffering, and for long ages have had no one to save and protect them — go, then, each of you alone, and take them up with compassion.

I myself, too, will now travel alone, returning to Mount Gayā, where the great seers dwell — both royal seers and Brahmā-seers alike, all gathered there, revered by the whole world.

The ascetic Kāśyapa, whom the whole country serves and honors, has a great many students under his instruction — I shall go now to deliver him."

At that time the sixty monks, taking up this teaching, went forth to proclaim the Dharma widely, each following the causes and conditions of his own past life, journeying freely in whatever direction he chose.

The World-Honored One himself walked on alone, making his way to Mount Gayā, entering the empty and tranquil forest of the Dharma there, to visit the ascetic Kāśyapa.

There was a hut there devoted to fire-worship, inhabited by a fierce and venomous dragon, though the mountain forest all around it was otherwise utterly clear and open, peaceful in every part.

The World-Honored One, meaning to teach and transform him, spoke to Kāśyapa and asked for a night's lodging. Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "I have no proper lodging to offer you — there is only the fire-hut, which is clean and fit to dwell in, yet it is home to a fierce dragon, certain to do harm to anyone who stays there."

The Buddha said: "Only grant me leave, and let me stay there for just this one night."

Kāśyapa raised every kind of objection, yet the World-Honored One continued to ask without relenting, until Kāśyapa said to the Buddha again: "It is not that I am unwilling to grant it to you, nor that you should think me stingy — do, then, as you please."

The Buddha then entered the fire-chamber, and sat there upright in correct meditation.

At this the fierce dragon, seeing the Buddha, flew into a rage and unleashed its poisonous fire, so that the whole chamber blazed up in flame — yet the fire never once touched the Buddha's own body, and once the hut itself had entirely burned away, the fire extinguished itself of its own accord, with the World-Honored One still sitting there calmly throughout.

It was just as when the fire that ends an age arises and consumes even Brahmā's own heavenly palace, and yet Brahmā himself, seated firmly upon his own throne, feels neither alarm nor fear at all.

The fierce dragon, beholding the World-Honored One's own radiant countenance, entirely unchanged, felt its own venom subside and a good and wholesome heart arise within it, and bowed its head in reverent refuge.

Kāśyapa, seeing the fire that night, cried out in astonishment: "How very strange indeed — that a man of such virtue and the true path should be burned to death by the dragon's fire!"

Kāśyapa and his followers came in the early morning to look, and found that the Buddha had already subdued the fierce dragon, and now held it, calm and gentle, within his own alms bowl.

Kāśyapa, recognizing the Buddha's own virtue and power, was struck with wonder — yet, owing to his own long-cultivated pride, he still said to himself: it is I who remain the true master of the path here.

The Buddha, according to what the moment required, then manifested every kind of miraculous transformation, discerning exactly what Kāśyapa held in his own heart and responding to each thought with a corresponding transformation, until his heart grew gradually softened, and he became fit at last to be a vessel for the true Dharma.

Recognizing for himself that his own path was shallow, and no match at all for the World-Honored One's, he resolved at last to humble his own heart, and, submitting himself, received the true Dharma.

Uruvilvā Kāśyapa, together with his five hundred disciples, following their teacher's own well-tamed example, received the true Dharma one after another in turn.

Once Kāśyapa and his whole company of followers had received this true transformation, they cast every one of the seer's own implements of livelihood, together with every instrument used in fire-worship, into the river, and these were carried off and swept downstream by the current.

Nadī Kāśyapa and Gayā Kāśyapa, his two younger brothers, dwelling downstream, saw these various garments and implements come tumbling down the current in disorder.

Believing that some great calamity must have befallen their brother, they were seized with alarm and could not compose themselves, and their own two communities, five hundred strong, went searching upstream along the river for their brother.

Finding that their brother had already gone forth from home, and that all his disciples had done the same, and understanding that he had attained a Dharma never known before, they too were struck with wonder, and said to one another: "Our brother has already taken up the path — we, too, ought now to follow him."

To these three brothers, together with their whole company of disciples, the World-Honored One then taught the Dharma, using the very image of fire-worship itself: "From ignorance and delusion, black smoke arises —