Fascicle 1

Long ago the bodhisattva's mind was open to what was true. Seeing that the world is impermanent and that a glorious life is hard to keep, he gave away everything he had. Śakra, lord of the gods, watching the bodhisattva nurture all beings with compassion and relieve the multitude through giving, saw his merit rising higher and higher, his virtue growing weighty in all ten directions — and Śakra, afraid the bodhisattva would take his own throne, conjured up a vision of hell and made it appear before him, saying: "You give and relieve the multitude — but when your life ends, your spirit will enter the great hell of Mount Tai and be boiled in ten thousand torments. Is this the reward your generosity earns you? Will you still give?" The bodhisattva answered: "How could there be one who gives with virtue and yet falls into the great hell of Mount Tai?" Śakra said: "If you don't believe me, ask the guilty man there." The bodhisattva asked the man: "What brought you to this hell?" The sinner said: "In my former life I emptied my house to relieve the poor, and pulled the multitude out of danger — and now I bear this heavy guilt in the hell of Mount Tai." The bodhisattva asked: "Does kindness truly bring disaster, then? And what of the one who receives the gift?" Śakra said: "The one who receives the gift, when his life ends, rises to heaven." The bodhisattva replied: "What I have relieved, I have relieved only for the sake of living beings. If it is truly as you say, then this is exactly what I wish for. To receive suffering for the sake of kindness and giving — I will do it gladly. To endanger oneself in order to relieve the multitude is the highest aspiration of a bodhisattva." Śakra said: "What is it, then, that you aspire to, that you hold to such a lofty resolve?" He answered: "I seek to become a Buddha, to lift up and relieve living beings, so that they may reach nirvāṇa and never again be born and die." Hearing this noble aim, Śakra bowed his head and said: "There truly is no one who gives with compassion and relieves living beings who is repaid with disaster and falls into the hell of Mount Tai. Your virtue has moved heaven and earth, and fearing you would take my throne, I showed you this hell to confuse your resolve. I deceived a sage out of foolishness — please forgive my grave fault." Having confessed and repented, he bowed his head and withdrew. This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king named Sarvada. He gave to all beings whatever they asked for, and was always moved to sorrowful compassion for those in danger and distress. Śakra, seeing the king's kindness and giving cover the ten directions, and hearing the gods, spirits, and dragons all say together, "The throne of Śakra was never held by one person forever — whoever's precepts are complete and whose conduct is lofty, whose kindness and giving are abundant, when his life ends he will become the next Śakra" — grew afraid the king would take his own place, and wished to go and test him, to see whether his virtue was true or false. Śakra ordered a border-god: "That human king's kindness pours down like rain, his virtue rises higher and higher — I fear he seeks to take my throne. Change yourself into a dove, fly swiftly to the king, feign terror, and beg him for mercy. The king is compassionate, and will surely take you in. Then I will come after you and ask the king to give you back. If the king will not give you back, he will surely have to buy meat to replace you. I will not stop deceiving him until his resolve, however pure and true, however unwavering his promise, finally breaks — until he cuts his own flesh to replace you. If the flesh keeps growing heavier the more you weigh it, and his flesh runs out while he is still in pain, he is sure to regret it. And if regret arises in him, then what he has resolved to be will not be accomplished." So Śakra changed into a hawk, and the border-god changed into a dove. The dove flew swiftly to the king's feet and cried out in terror: "Great King, have pity on me! My life is at its end!" The king said: "Do not fear, do not fear — I will save you now." The hawk arrived close behind, and said to the king: "I have come for my dove — the dove is my food. I beg the king to return it to me." The king said: "The dove came to me and entrusted its life to me. I have already taken it in, and my word must be kept, without wavering from beginning to end. If you truly want meat, I will give you enough to satisfy you a hundred times over." The hawk said: "I want only the dove, no other meat. I beg the king to grant my wish — will you snatch away my food?" The king said: "I have already taken it in. My trust is as weighty as heaven and earth — how could I go against it in my heart? Tell me, what must I give you so that you will let the dove go and leave content?" The hawk said: "If the king's kindness and giving truly means to relieve all beings, then cut flesh from the king's own body, equal in weight to the dove, and I will gladly accept it." The king said: "Very well." He at once cut flesh from his own thigh and weighed it against the dove — but the dove kept outweighing it. He cut and cut like this, and though all the flesh of his body was gone, it still had not equaled the dove's weight, and the pain of his wounds was beyond measure. Still, with a mind of compassion and patience, wishing only that the dove live, the king ordered a minister close by: "Kill me quickly, and weigh my very marrow against the dove. I have taken the vow before all buddhas, the weighty vow of true and right conduct, to relieve living beings from their danger and distress. Though the troubles of the wicked may arise, they are like a faint breeze — how could they ever move Mount Tai?" Seeing that the king's heart held to the Way without wavering, that his kindness could not be matched, the hawk and the dove both returned to their true forms. Śakra and the border-god bowed their heads to the ground and said: "Great King, what is it you aspire to, that you would suffer so for this?" The human king said: "I do not aspire to the throne of Śakra or to the rank of any flying emperor. I see that living beings are sunk in blindness and darkness, that they do not see the Three Jewels or hear the Buddha's teaching, that they give their hearts freely to disaster and calamity and throw themselves into the hell with no reprieve. Seeing their folly and delusion, I am moved to sorrow for them. I vow to seek buddhahood, to lift living beings out of their danger and distress, and bring them to nirvāṇa." Śakra, astonished, said: "I foolishly thought the Great King wished to take my throne, and so I troubled you. What instruction do you have for me now?" The king said: "Let my body's wounds be healed and made whole as before, and let my resolve toward giving and relieving the multitude rise higher than it does even now." Śakra then sent heavenly physicians with divine medicine, and the wounds of the king's body were healed, his complexion and strength surpassing what they had been before — in an instant his wounds were entirely healed. Śakra bowed his head again, circled the king three times in joy, and departed. From that time on, the king's giving surpassed what it had been before. This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was extremely poor and destitute, and traveled with a group of merchants to another country. All of them held faith in the Buddha, and gave to the poor and destitute to relieve living beings. The others all said to him: "Everyone here is giving with compassion — what will you give?" He answered: "There is nothing borrowed in this body that is not, in the end, cast aside. I have seen the fish of the sea, the large swallowing the small, and my heart aches for them. I will offer my own body in place of the smaller ones, so that they may have even a brief moment of life longer." He at once threw himself into the sea. The great sea-fish were satisfied, and the smaller ones lived. His spirit was reborn as the king of the sturgeon-fish, his body many leagues long. By the sea there was a country suffering drought, its people starving and reduced to devouring one another. The fish wept and said: "Living beings are in such turmoil — how bitter their suffering is! My body has leagues of flesh; it can supply the people for ten days, a month." He at once beached himself upon the country's shore, and the whole country ate of him to preserve their lives, carrying away his flesh for months while the fish still lived. A heavenly spirit came down and said: "You endure such suffering — can you truly bear it? Why not let go of your life, and be free of this pain?" The fish said: "If I end my own life now, my spirit will depart and my body will rot, and the people will starve again later and once more devour one another — I cannot bear to see that." The spirit was moved by this, and said: "The bodhisattva's compassion cannot be matched." Grieved at heart, the spirit said: "You will surely become a buddha, and deliver my people." Then a man came with an axe and cut off the fish's head, and the fish died. His spirit was then conceived as the crown prince of that kingdom's king. From birth he had the wisdom of a sage, and his compassion, born of the Four Infinite Virtues, spread broadly like heaven and earth. Grieving for the people's poverty and hardship, he could hardly speak for choking on his own tears. And still the country suffered drought. He stilled his mind and disciplined himself, withdrew from his meals and gave up his offerings, and bowed his head in repentance, saying: "The wrongdoing of the people is my own fault. I would give up my own life in exchange for the blessing of rain for my people." Day after day he mourned in this way, like a most filial son mourning the death of a sage father. His sincerity reached far, and five hundred pratyekabuddhas came at once to the borders of his country. Hearing of this, the king's heart rejoiced as though he had forgotten his own body; he went out to welcome them, bowing his head, and invited them to the main hall. The queen and the crown prince, none of them failing in reverence, offered the finest robes of the Dharma and all that was needed, prostrating themselves fully on the ground, bowing their heads, weeping and saying: "My mind is impure and my conduct is defiled; I have not lived up to the teaching of the Three Jewels and the Four Infinite Virtues, and have brought suffering upon my people through harshness — the blame should fall on me and me alone. I have brought this on the lowly and the humble; the drought has lasted for years, and the starving people's resentment and suffering wound my heart. I beg you to remove this calamity from my people, and let the blame and disaster fall on me instead." The pratyekabuddhas said: "You are a benevolent ruler, compassionate and sorrowful, kind and giving, your virtue equal to Śakra's own — all buddhas already know this. Now we grant you good fortune; be at ease and grieve no more. Quickly command your people, and have them all sow their grain." The king did as he was told, and men and women alike took up their work; every household tended its fields, and the rice-shoots transformed and bore fruit in extraordinary abundance, and the farming officials reported it to him. The king said, "Wait until it is ripe." The fruit-pods covered the whole country, each containing several bushels of grain, their fragrance filling the entire land; the whole country rejoiced, praising the king's virtue. The four bordering rival states all proclaimed themselves vassals, and the people gathered like clouds, and the borders of the kingdom grew wider day by day. Throughout the land, all upheld the precepts and took refuge in the Three Jewels, and when the king, his ministers, and his people came to the end of their lives, they were all reborn in the heavens. The Buddha said: "The poor man of that time was I myself. Through many kalpas of kindness and giving, relieving living beings, my merit was never wasted, and now I have attained buddhahood, called Heaven-Among-Heavens, hero of the three realms." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva, at that time a wandering ascetic, dwelt always among the mountains and marshes, single-mindedly devoted to the Way and committing no wrong. He ate only fruit and drank only water, keeping nothing in store, and out of compassion for living beings, foolish and self-destroying as they are, whenever he saw danger and calamity he risked his life to save them. Once, going out to gather fruit, he came upon a nursing tigress. Having just given birth, she was exhausted and starving, and in her hunger and desperation her mind grew wild, and she meant to turn and devour her own cubs. Seeing this, the bodhisattva was struck with grief and sorrow, mourning the immeasurable suffering of living beings caught in this world, that mother and child should devour one another — a pain beyond words — and he choked back tears. He looked all around for something to feed the tiger, to save the cubs' lives, but found nothing at all. He thought to himself: "Tigers are meat-eating creatures by nature." And he reflected still more deeply: "I have set my resolve to study the Way only for the sake of living beings sunk in such heavy suffering, that I might relieve them and let them find lasting peace of body and life. Later, when I grow old and die, this body will be cast aside all the same — better to give it now in an act of kindness that relieves the multitude and perfects virtue." He at once threw his own head into the tiger's mouth, offering his head so that death would come quickly and he would not feel the pain. Both the mother tiger and her cubs were saved whole. All the buddhas praised his virtue, and the sages above shared in his merit; among the gods, dragons, and good spirits, none who held to the Way could keep from being moved. Through this, some among them attained the fruits of stream-entry, once-returning, non-returning, arhatship, the awakening of a pratyekabuddha, or gave rise to the unsurpassed and truly awakened mind. Through this fierce resolve he surpassed the other bodhisattvas by nine kalpas, vowing to become a teacher of gods and humans in this world of the five corruptions, delivering the most rebellious and evil, and turning falsehood into accord with the Way. This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king of a country called Kanti, and the king's name was Pien-yueh — inwardly wise and outwardly kind, his countenance gentle and upright. His people followed his transforming influence; his prisons held no captives; the poor and destitute could ask for whatever they wished; his kindness and giving flowed like water, his grace like Śakra's own. An ascetic from another country, envious of the king's benevolence and giving and of how the people followed his every wish, and full of wicked jealousy, wanted to use falsehood to destroy what was true. He came to the palace gate and said: "I have heard that the enlightened king relieves the people's poverty and hardship, as heaven's rain covers all things equally." He said to the guard: "Will you hear me?" The attendant reported this, and the king appeared at once. The ascetic, once before him, said: "Great King, your benevolent grace covers the four directions; there is no one with any understanding who does not sigh in wonder at it. I dare to state my wish, and beg to have it heard." The king said: "Very good!" The ascetic said: "Heavenly kings still give; when something is sought of them, they do not refuse. Now the occasion calls for a human head — I beg to ask for the king's own head, to fulfill my hope." The king said: "What good is my head, that you should want it? I have many treasures — let me add to them and give them to you." The ascetic would not accept them. The king then had craftsmen fashion heads of the seven treasures, several hundred of them, and gave them to the ascetic. The ascetic said: "I want only the king's own head." The king had never turned anyone away. He came down from the hall at once, tied his hair to a tree, and said: "I give my head to you." The ascetic drew his sword and stepped quickly forward. The spirit of the tree, seeing this, was outraged at such an outrage against the Way, and struck the ascetic's cheek with its hand; his body twisted and writhed, his face turned backward, his hand dropped, and the sword fell. The king recovered his health, and his ministers and people all wished him long life, joy and grief mingled together; the gods above praised his virtue — this may truly be called giving from within! The Four Heavenly Kings gave him their protection, every poison and pestilence was dispelled, the land was free of sickness, the five grains ripened in abundance, prisons broke open, and ruler and people alike rejoiced together. The Buddha said to the monks: "The King of Kanti at that time was I myself. The ascetic was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king who governed his people with compassion, measuring himself by what he would wish for another. Month after month he made his rounds among the poor and destitute, rescuing widowers and widows, providing medicine for the sick and gruel for the hungry. Whenever he went out on his rounds, he ordered the carriages behind him laden with treasures, clothing, and medicine, and buried those who had died. Whenever he saw a poor person, he would reproach himself, saying: "If the ruler is poor in virtue, the people are impoverished; if the ruler is rich in virtue, the people's households are full. Now that the people are poor, it is I who am poor." Such was the king's kindness, and his name spread to the ten directions. The second Śakra, disturbed by the heat of this, grew afraid in his heart, saying: "His virtue rises higher and higher — he will surely take my throne. I must break his resolve before it is too late!" So he transformed himself into an old brahmin, and came to the king to beg for a thousand pieces of silver. The king gave them to him at once. The brahmin said: "I am going west, and fear thieves may steal them — I wish to leave them in the king's keeping." The king said: "There are no thieves in my country." He insisted again: "Leave them with the king." The king accepted them. Heaven then transformed itself into another brahmin who came to the palace gate; the attendant reported this, and the king appeared. The brahmin said in praise: "Great King, your fame and achievement spread to the eight directions, your virtuous conduct is a rare thing in this world. I have come from far away because I have something to ask." The king said: "Very good." The brahmin said: "My past fortune was thin, and I was born a common man, but I long for honor and glory — I wish to ask for this kingdom." The king said: "Very well." He at once gave it to him, together with his wife and child, and departed in a light carriage. Heaven again transformed into a brahmin and asked the king for his carriage; he gave it to him as well, and continued on his way with his wife and child, stopping to rest by a mountain. There was an ascetic of the five supernatural powers who was a friend of the king; recalling the king's virtue, he looked up and observed the stars, and saw that the king had lost his kingdom. He stilled his mind in meditation and beheld Śakra, greedy and jealous, seizing the kingdom, leaving the king exhausted and worn out. By his spiritual powers the ascetic came at once to where the king was, and said: "What is it you seek, that you toil so?" The king said: "What is in my heart, you already know it all." The ascetic then transformed himself into a one-shaft cart and carried the king back partway; at dawn they parted. Heaven, transformed as a brahmin, again asked for the cart, and he gave it to him as well. Continuing on, before they had gone another few dozen leagues to reach that other country, Heaven again transformed into the earlier brahmin and came to ask for the silver coins. The king said: "I gave away my kingdom to another and had forgotten your coins." The brahmin said: "You must return my coins within three days." So the king pawned his wife and son, each to a separate household, and obtained a thousand silver coins to repay the brahmin. His wife, pawned to one household, bathed and took off her pearls and jewels and hung them on a rack; Heaven transformed into a hawk and snatched away her clothes and jewels. The woman was accused: "The servant has stolen them!" and she was seized and imprisoned. Their son, sleeping together with the household's own son, was visited in the night by Heaven, who killed the household's son. The dead child's family took the body to the authorities, and mother and son were both imprisoned, starved and disfigured, crying out with no one to help them, weeping and lamenting all day, and their crime was made complete and they were sentenced to execution in the marketplace. The king, having earned the thousand silver coins as a laborer, went to redeem his wife and son, and passing through the marketplace he saw them there. He at once called to mind the buddhas of the ten directions, and repented, saying to himself: "What evil in my past life has brought this upon me!" He stilled his mind and entered meditation, and with the clarity of spiritual insight he saw what Heaven had done. A voice came from the sky: "Why not kill them at once?" The king said: "I have heard that Śakra relieves all living beings broadly, his sincere heart moved to sorrow for them, nurturing them beyond even a mother's love, so that no creature with blood in its veins fails to receive his blessing — how is it that you, having gained your throne through no evil cause, now act like this?" Śakra, his heart heavy with poison and evil, his sin ripening to fullness, then fell alive into the hell of Mount Tai; among gods, humans, dragons, and spirits, none failed to call this good. The king of that land then released the king's wife and son from their crime. The two kings met, and asked each other the whole story from beginning to end, and stated the full circumstances; throughout the kingdom, high and low alike, none failed to weep. The king of that land divided his kingdom and shared its rule with him; and the ministers and people of his former kingdom, seeking out where their king now was, came from across the land to welcome him back. Between the two kingdoms, grief and joy mingled together. "The king of that time was I myself. The wife was Yaśodharā. The son was Rāhula. Śakra was Devadatta. The ascetic in the mountains was Śāriputra. The king of that other country was Maitreya." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king who governed his people with rectitude, his heart free of bias, though he never went out to see the sights of his own land. His chief minister proposed to him: "I wish that you would go out on a single excursion." The king said: "Very good!" and the next day he went out. The people were joyful, everyone content in their place; he saw the country's wealthy households, their dwellings elegant, their roof tiles of gold and silver, their clothing and ornaments shining on the road, and said, "How rich my country is!" and his heart was greatly pleased. Returning to the palace, he thought it over and said: "What good do these wealthy households do for the country?" and ordered their wealth confiscated as military provisions. There was one wealthy household whose private fortune amounted to thirty million; he had it reported to the king. The king grew angry and said: "How dare you deceive me to my face?" The man answered: "From my youth I have made my living, and whatever private wealth, whatever treasures lie within my house, are divided five ways — they are not truly mine." The king asked: "What do you mean by 'private wealth'?" He answered: "Wealth I hold in my mind for the Buddha's work, proclaim with my mouth for the Buddha's teaching, and carry out with my body for the Buddha's deeds; wealth I give up from the 'five shares' to build temples for the Buddha's lineage, to honor and serve the community of the worthy, providing their clothing and food, and to nurture with compassion even the smallest flying, crawling, wriggling creatures — wealth that, wherever my heart finds no unease in giving it, I give freely — this good fortune follows me wherever I go, as a shadow follows a form. This is what I call my true private wealth. As for the 'five shares': the first is water, the second is fire, the third is thieves, the fourth is the government, and the fifth is the ending of one's own life. When this body reaches its end, the treasures of the household are cast aside in this world, and one must go on alone; whether misfortune or fortune awaits, one does not know — I see the world as an illusion, and so I dare not claim any of it as my own. As for the fortune reckoned at thirty million, this could well amount to a hundred million, and it is nothing but a den of disaster, and I always fear it will endanger me — how could I dare claim it as mine? I beg that your officers carry it all away, and relieve me of this worry." The king said: "Truly, these are wise words," and sent the man away. He withdrew to his private chambers, stilled his mind, and reflected deeply, and suddenly awoke to the truth, saying: "This very body cannot even be kept safe forever — how much less the kingdom, the land, my wife, my son, and all my possessions — how could any of it last long?" He at once began collecting the Buddha's scriptures, reciting the texts and expounding their meaning, and the defilements of his mind were cleared away. He advanced upright ministers and accepted their loyal counsel, granted a general amnesty throughout his kingdom, returned the people's wealth, put his officials in order, and deliberated on lenient and just governance. He said to his ministers: "Whoever has not seen the wondrous meaning and weighty precepts of the Buddha's scriptures is truly deaf and blind! That wealthy household is rich — only I am poor!" He at once ordered his kingdom's treasures distributed, relieving the poor and hardship-stricken according to their needs, establishing Buddhist temples hung with silk banners and burning incense, feeding the community of monks, and observing the six fast days himself. In this way, for three years, all four borders of his land were at peace, banditry entirely ceased, the five grains ripened, and the people knew neither hunger nor cold. When the king later came to the end of his life, he was reborn in the second heaven." The Buddha said to the monks: "The king of that time was I myself. The wealthy man was Śāriputra. The one who urged the king to go out and see his country was Ānanda." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great householder named Xiantan, whose wealth was beyond counting. Seeing the Buddha's clear teaching, he awoke to the truth that the world is impermanent, that a glorious life is hard to keep, and that wealth is never truly one's own — only the merit of giving does not decay. He proclaimed to the people: "Whoever is poor and in need, take freely as you wish." For several months it went on like this. In time, the government grew lenient and the people prospered, and there was no one left in want. Xiantan then thought: "I should now buy medicine, to care for and protect those who are sick." So he bought fine medicine to save the lives of the multitude, and his kindness and nurturing reached everyone, his grace leaving no one untouched. Year after year his kindness continued, and his virtue's fragrance spread far and wide; the sick came hurrying from all four directions, and from first to last they praised his boundless bounty, his virtue matching that of heaven itself. When his wealth was entirely exhausted, he set out himself to gather treasures. A hundred leagues or more from home, upon a river he came upon several carts laden with the gravely ill. He asked: "Where are you going?" They answered: "To Xiantan's place, hoping to preserve what life remains to us." Xiantan turned back at once, borrowed five hundred taels of gold from the king, bought medicine and treated them, and all the sick recovered. He then went out to sea with merchants to gather treasures, and what they obtained was very great. Returning to the country, he left the ship and traveled on foot; on the road, lacking water, Xiantan found a well and called the others to draw from it, then went to drink himself. The merchants, seeing the brilliant white pearls he had obtained, their light outshining everyone else's, grew wickedly greedy, and betraying his sagely kindness, together they pushed Xiantan and threw him into the well. But the bodhisattva's compassionate virtue moved the spirits and gods, and a heavenly spirit caught him so that he was not harmed. The merchants returned to the country, and the king asked: "Where has Xiantan gone?" They answered: "We parted ways as soon as we left the country — we do not know where he went." The king said: "Did you kill him, then?" They said: "No." Xiantan, down in the well, saw an empty passage to one side, and followed it until he emerged at the bottom of that same household's well, and within seven days' journey he reached his own country. The king asked: "Why have you returned empty-handed?" He answered: "I found nothing." The king thought quietly to himself: "There must be more to this." He summoned the merchants and said: "If you confess the truth now, you will live; if you lie, you will die." They all confessed at once, and were handed over to the authorities and sentenced. Xiantan wept, and hurried to the palace gate, bowing his head and begging for their pardon. The king said: "This is against the law." Xiantan pleaded again: "Their view was simply mistaken and foolish — it does not deserve so severe a punishment. Please forgive their ignorance." The king, honoring Xiantan's boundless kindness, pardoned the merchants' grave crime, and ordered their property returned to them. The merchants all said together: "If Xiantan did not honor the Buddha, how could he have such compassion?" and each of them chose fine treasures to give back to him. Xiantan accepted only half of what each offered, and the merchants bowed their heads and said: "By your grace our lives were spared whole — we beg you to accept it all." So he accepted it, and with it repaid the king's gold, and made a great gift besides. The king, together with his ministers and people, all took the precepts together; sons were filial, ministers were loyal, the gods gave their glorious protection, the country prospered and the people were at peace, and all within its borders submitted to this virtue, none failing to praise it. The Buddha said: "Xiantan at that time was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born into a family of the four castes, and the moment he touched the ground he spoke, saying: "Living beings suffer ten thousand calamities; I will relieve them. They do not see the Buddha's presence, do not hear his clear teaching — I will open their ears and eyes, remove their blindness and deafness, and lead them to see and hear the unsurpassed truth, the king of all sages, the source of all clear models. Through giving I will draw them forward, and none will fail to submit." His nine classes of relatives, astonished, said: "Never since ancient times has an infant spoken such words — could this be the spirit of some heavenly dragon or god! We must divine this." The child answered his relatives at once: "I am transformed by the highest sages, and I hold within me the natural clarity of universal brightness — I am none of those strange spirits; have no doubt of this." Having said this, he fell silent. His relatives said: "This child holds the vast, generous resolve of heaven and earth — surely he is no ordinary man!" and they named him Pushi, "Universal Giving." By the age of ten he had mastered all the Buddhist scriptures and every worldly art and craft, and he took leave of his family to relieve the multitude through giving to the poor and needy. His family said: "We hold the finest and most fortunate of names — you may give as freely as you wish to relieve the poor and needy." He answered: "It is not enough," and asked to become a monk: "Grant me the robes of the Dharma, the alms bowl, and the walking staff, that I may use them to relieve the multitude — this has been my life's wish since birth." His family, recalling the vow he had made at his very birth, could find no words to refuse him, and so, following his wish, allowed him to become a monk. Traveling about and teaching, he passed through a great country, where there was a wealthy and powerful household, likewise learned in many texts, who, seeing Pushi's dignified and radiant bearing, his nature calm and pure as heavenly gold, bearing the marks of a supreme sage, one destined to become a hero of the world, said to Pushi: "I have something to ask of you, and hope the sage will grant it. I have an unworthy daughter, and wish to give her to you as a servant to attend your needs." He answered: "Very well — but you must wait until I return." He then set out toward the sea, took passage across it, came ashore, and entered the mountains, arriving at a place with no one else present, where he saw from a distance a silver city, its palace halls bright and beautiful. At that time a poisonous serpent coiled seven times around the city, its body vast, over a hundred spans around; seeing Pushi approach, it raised its head. Pushi thought: "Such a poisonous creature surely means harm — I will raise a boundless compassion to dissolve its poison. Malice is like fire, and compassion is like water; when has water ever failed to quench fire?" He sat at once and entered a meditation of compassion, vowing: "May all living beings soon be free of the eight difficulties, may their hearts abandon evil thoughts, may they meet the Buddha, see the Dharma, join the assembly of monks, and hear the unsurpassed, true and clear path, their hearts opening and their defilements dissolving, just as I myself have seen." Having entered this meditation of compassion, the serpent's poison dissolved at once, and it lowered its head and slept. Pushi climbed over its head and entered the city. Within the city was a heavenly spirit, who, seeing Pushi come, said with delight: "I have long revered your sagely virtue — that you have come flying here now fulfills what has long been in my heart. I beg you to stay a single season, ninety days." Pushi consented. The heavenly king then entrusted his official duties to a close attendant, and personally prepared meals for him, attending him morning and night with the utmost reverence, receiving instruction in the buddhas' teaching of impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and no-self, and the clear teaching for relieving the multitude. When the season's provisions were exhausted, Pushi set out again on his way, and the heavenly king gave him a bright-moon pearl as a parting gift, saying: "Keep this pearl with you, and it will light forty leagues around you; whatever you wish for and speak aloud, every treasure will be provided in full. And if you attain buddhahood one day, I wish to be your disciple, attending closely at your holy side." Pushi said this would be so. He continued on his way, and saw a city of gold, its splendor surpassing the silver city, and again a poisonous serpent coiled fourteen times around it, its enormous body twice the size of the last, raising its head several spans high. Pushi again entered his meditation of vast compassion, and the serpent's poison dissolved at once, and it lowered its head and slept. He climbed over it and entered the city. There was a heavenly being within, who, seeing Pushi, said with joy: "I have long revered your spiritual brilliance — that you have come flying here is truly wonderful. I beg you to stay two seasons, a hundred and eighty days, and I wish to provide for your every need, only asking that you leave me your spiritual power." Pushi consented, and stayed, teaching him the unsurpassed clear conduct, and when the time was complete he took his leave. The heavenly being again gave him a spirit pearl as a parting gift, its light reaching eighty leagues, providing whatever treasures were wished for within that range: "If you attain the Way, I wish to be your disciple, foremost in spiritual powers." Receiving this spirit pearl, he continued on his way again, and saw a city of lapis lazuli, its brilliance surpassing even the last, and again a poisonous serpent, its enormous body larger still, coiled twenty-one times around the city, raising its head and glaring with furious eyes at the city gate. Again he sat and entered deeply into his meditation of universal compassion, vowing to relieve all living beings, and the poison was dissolved and the serpent lowered its head. He climbed over it and entered the city. The heavenly being there rejoiced and spoke as the others had: "I beg you to stay three seasons, and wish to provide for whatever you desire." When the time was complete he took his leave, and was given yet another spirit pearl, its light reaching a hundred and sixty leagues, and wherever the pearl was, every treasure would follow and fill that radius, whatever the heart desired, nothing withheld. "If you attain the unsurpassed, true and complete awakening, I wish to be your disciple, possessing the most brilliant wisdom." He said: "You shall surely have your wish." Pushi, having obtained the pearl, said: "This is enough to relieve the poverty and hardship of all living beings," and turned back toward his former home. The dragon spirits of the sea, all of them, held council together, saying: "In all our vast ocean, these three pearls alone are our glory. Now this ascetic has obtained them all — what glory is left to us? We would rather lose every other treasure than lose these pearls." A sea-spirit transformed himself into an ordinary man and stood before Pushi, saying: "I have heard that you, a man of virtue, have obtained the treasures of this world — might I see them?" Pushi showed them to him at once, and the spirit struck at his head and seized the pearls. Pushi thought: "I crossed every danger and traversed the vast sea to obtain these treasures, meaning to use them to relieve the poverty and hardship of living beings — and now they are seized from me by this spirit?" The spirit said: "Give me back my pearls, or I will drain your sea dry." The sea-spirit answered: "What empty words are these? This vast ocean is so deep and wide that none could ever exhaust it — the sun and moon might fall from the sky, the mightiest wind might be turned back, sooner than this sea could ever run dry, just as emptiness itself can never be destroyed." Pushi said: "Long ago, before the Buddha Dīpaṃkara, I vowed to gain the power of the Way, to overturn every ocean and pluck up Mount Sumeru itself, to shake heaven and earth and move every buddha-land. The Buddha granted my resolve and gave me my wish, and now I have attained it. How could the petty, hair-thin power of a ghost or spirit like you ever obstruct the momentum of my true and right course?" And he spoke these words: "Since numberless kalpas past, I have drunk my mother's milk, wept tears in my crying, and shed the blood of my own death — and even the sea could not hold it all. The bonds of love are hard to sever, birth and death are hard to end, and still I wish to sever the very root of love's bonds, to end the very cycle of birth and death. If this present age cannot exhaust the sea, then age after age I will go on bailing it out." He stood at once, planted both feet together, and began scooping the seawater out with a dipper and casting it beyond the Iron Ring Mountains. There was a heaven-being named Universal Purity, who, hearing this from afar, thought deeply to himself: "Long ago, before the Buddha Dīpaṃkara, I heard that this man would achieve his vow, and would surely, as the World-Honored One, deliver my own people." The heaven-being came down at once and helped him bail out the water, until eight-tenths of it was gone. The sea-spirit, terrified and repentant, said: "What manner of being is this, to have such boundless spiritual power! The water will soon be gone, and my dwelling destroyed with it." He brought out every treasure at once, emptying every one of his storehouses, and gave them all to Pushi. Pushi refused them, saying: "I want only my pearls back." The spirits returned his pearls to him, and Pushi returned their water to the sea. Returning to his own land, he gave freely along the way in every country he passed, and in every country he passed through, no one remained poor; everywhere, the countries reformed their governance according to the five precepts and the ten good deeds, opened their prisons and granted amnesty, and his grace reached every living being, until at last he attained buddhahood. The Buddha said to the monks: "Pushi was I myself. My father was King Śuddhodana. My mother was my mother, Māyā. The ascetic's daughter is now Yaśodharā. The heavenly being in the silver city is now Ānanda. The one in the golden city is Maudgalyāyana. The one in the lapis-lazuli city is Śāriputra. Through many kalpas the bodhisattva diligently practiced the Four Infinite Virtues, vowing to seek buddhahood and to relieve living beings." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king named Dīrghāyu, "Long Life," whose crown prince was named Dīrghāyus, "Long-Living." The king was benevolent and compassionate, always holding a heart of sorrow for others, grieving for living beings and vowing to relieve and deliver them, tireless in his diligence. He never resorted to sword or staff, and his ministers and people held no resentment; the rains came in their season, and the grain was rich and abundant. The king of a small neighboring country, harsh and violent in his rule, greedy and cruel in his governance, whose own country was wasted and whose people were poor, said to his ministers: "I have heard that Dīrghāyu's country is rich and abundant, and it is not far from here; he holds to kindness and will not kill, and keeps no defenses of arms. If I wish to seize it, could it be done?" His ministers said, "It could." So he raised soldiers and brought them to the borders of the great country. The border officials sent word in haste, hoping the king would prepare his defenses. Dīrghāyu gathered his ministers and deliberated, saying: "That king comes only out of greed for my people and my abundant treasures. If we fight him, we will surely harm many lives — to profit oneself while destroying one's own people is greed without benevolence, and I will not do this." His ministers all said together: "We, your servants, have long studied the arts of war and military strategy — allow us to destroy him ourselves, and spare Your Majesty this trouble." The king said: "If we win, his people die; if we lose, my own people are lost. His soldiers and my own people are both the offspring of heaven — who does not treasure his own body and cherish his own life? To preserve oneself at the cost of harming the people is something a worthy man will not do." His ministers went out, saying: "Such a heaven-blessed and benevolent lord we cannot afford to lose," and gathered themselves together to resist the enemy with arms regardless. Dīrghāyu, aware of this, said to the crown prince: "That king covets my country and comes with poison in his heart. My ministers, for the sake of my single life, wish to destroy the lives of my people. If I now give up the kingdom, perhaps the lives of my people can all be spared. Would this not be right?" The crown prince said, "Yes." Father and son together climbed over the city wall, and, changing their names and lineage, hid themselves among the mountains and grasses. Then the greedy king entered the country. His ministers and people, having lost their former lord, mourned as a filial son mourns the loss of a parent, wailing and beating their breasts without restraint. The greedy king offered a reward of a thousand catties of gold and ten million coins for Dīrghāyu's capture. Dīrghāyu, having left, sat beneath a tree by the roadside, deep in sorrowful thought, grieving for the painful toil of living beings caught in birth and death, who do not see impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and no-self, and are deceived by their desires into countless sufferings. A brahmin from a distant country, having heard of the king's love of giving and his relief of the lives of the multitude, had come from far away, seeking refuge in his poverty, and rested beneath this same tree. They greeted each other, and each told the other his circumstances. The brahmin, astonished, said: "Heavenly King, how have you come to such a state?" and wept, telling his own story: "My remaining years are few, and so I have come to beg, hoping to preserve what life I have left. Now that the Great King has lost his kingdom, my own life too is at its end." And he wept for him. The king said: "You have come to me in your poverty and need, and it happens to be just the moment I have lost my kingdom, and I have nothing with which to help you — is this not a painful thing!" Wiping away his tears, he said: "I have heard that the new king offers a very great reward for me — if you take my head, you may claim this rich reward." The brahmin answered: "It is not so. From afar I have long revered the Heavenly King's benevolence in relieving living beings, his grace equal to heaven and earth, and this is why I came here from my own country, hoping to find relief for myself. Now, though you command me to take your head, I dare not accept such an order." The king said: "This body is but a fragile vessel — how could I hope to keep it forever? All that is born must die; what has ever lasted always? If you do not take it, it will in the end become dust and ash all the same." The brahmin said: "Heavenly King, if you truly wish, out of your heaven-wide benevolence, to give up your life to relieve the lowly and humble, then I beg only that you release your hands and let me go my own way." The king then followed him at once to the gate of his former city, and had himself bound and reported. The people of the country, seeing their king, wailed and their grief shook the whole land. The brahmin received his reward. The greedy king ordered him burned alive at the crossroads of the city. The ministers pleaded: "We, your servants, wish only, since our former lord must now come to his end, to be permitted a small offering to send off his departing spirit." The greedy king said, "Very well." Officials and common people alike, grieving in the streets, threw themselves down and writhed, all crying out to heaven. The crown prince Dīrghāyus, disguised as a firewood seller, stood before his father as he passed. The father, seeing him, looked up to heaven and said: "To go against a father's final teaching, to harbor malice and nurse a grudge, binding oneself to disaster for ten thousand generations — this is not the conduct of a filial son. The buddhas' boundless compassion, born of the Four Infinite Virtues, its virtue enfolding heaven and earth — I follow this path even to the point of giving my own life to relieve the multitude, and still I fear I may fail to achieve even the smallest measure of filial conduct — how much more so one who returns violence with vengeance? If you do not defy my words, this may be called filial piety." The son could not bear to watch his father die, and returned deep into the mountains. The king's life then came to its end. The crown prince cried out in grief, blood flowing from his mouth, and said: "Though my lord, at the very end, gave me his final teaching of perfect benevolence, I must go against it — I will surely put this poisonous tyrant to death." He then went out and hired himself as a laborer, working as a gardener for the minister of that king. The minister, passing through his garden one day, saw how fine the vegetables were, and asked about it. The garden overseer answered: "We hired a man in the market, most skilled in gardening." The minister asked him directly: "Can you do everything?" He answered: "Among all the hundred crafts, I am foremost." The minister had him prepare a feast for the king, surpassing even the royal kitchens. The king asked: "Who prepared this food?" and the minister told him the truth. The king summoned him at once, and made him steward of the kitchen. Everything he did pleased the king, and he was raised to the rank of a close attendant. The king said to him: "The son of King Dīrghāyu is my greatest enemy — I now make you my border guard." He said, "As you command." The king asked: "Do you enjoy hunting?" He answered, "I do." The king went out hunting, and, chasing after game on horseback, became separated from his companions, and was left alone with Dīrghāyus in the mountains for three days, until they grew hungry and exhausted. The king loosened his sword and gave it to Dīrghāyus, and lay down to sleep with his head on Dīrghāyus's knee. Dīrghāyus thought: "Now I have you." He drew the sword to strike, but suddenly remembered his father's command, and said: "To go against my father's teaching would be unfilial," and sheathed the sword and stopped. The king woke and said: "I dreamed just now that Dīrghāyus meant to cut off my head — what could this mean?" He answered: "The mountains have fierce spirits who delight in causing burning fevers — I myself am your guard, what is there to fear?" The king lay back down again, and this happened three times in all, until at last Dīrghāyus threw down the sword and said: "I will be a benevolent father to him, and forgive and spare his life." The king woke and said: "I dreamed that Dīrghāyus forgave my life." The crown prince said: "Dīrghāyus is myself. I have carried the thought of avenging my father down to this very moment. My father, at the point of death, left me his final teaching of benevolence, commanding me to follow the buddhas' way of patience, of repaying evil with good. And yet I, harboring the most extreme foolishness in my nature, thought to let two poisons destroy each other. Three times I remembered my father's teaching, and three times I sheathed my sword. I beg that the Great King put me to death at once and be rid of this grave danger — when my body dies and my spirit departs, no evil intention will arise again." The king, repenting, said: "I have been cruel and violent, unable to tell good from evil. Your late father, of the highest and most complete conduct — his kingdom was lost, but his conduct was not lost — he may truly be called a supreme sage! And you, preserving your father's memory and keeping his conduct whole — you may truly be called filial! I have been a wolf, devouring life to fill my own belly, and now that my life lies in your hands, you spare me instead of killing me — how could I ever go against this? Now I wish to return to my own kingdom — by which road should I go?" He answered: "It was I who confused the way — that was my own doing." He led the king out of the forest to meet with his assembled officials. The king said: "Does anyone here recognize Dīrghāyus?" They all said, "We do not know him." The king said: "This is Dīrghāyus himself! I now return his kingdom to him, and I will return to my own land. From this day we shall be as brothers, sharing fortune and misfortune alike." On the day the crown prince was established as king, grief and joy mingled throughout the land, and there was no one who did not wish him long life. The greedy king returned to his own country, and from then on the two exchanged tribute with one another, and lasting peace was achieved. The Buddha said to the monks: "King Dīrghāyu at that time was I myself. The crown prince was Ānanda. The greedy king was Devadatta. Devadatta has borne poisonous intent toward me life after life, and life after life I have relieved him all the same. Ānanda and Devadatta originally held no grudge against one another, and so did not harm each other. Life after life I have endured what is hard to endure, mastering my will and establishing my conduct, and so I have now attained buddhahood, honored as the World-Honored One of the three realms." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.