Fascicle 2

Long ago there was a king of Vārāṇasī named Poye, who governed his country with benevolence — weapons of war set aside, the rod and lash abolished, prisons torn down, no cries of complaint heard on any road. All his living subjects had what they needed; the country prospered and its people flourished, and the gods themselves praised his benevolence. His royal city stretched four hundred leagues across and sixteen hundred leagues around, and the king daily fed all who dwelt within it, granting every request. A neighboring king, hearing how rich and prosperous this country was, its calamities all dispelled, plotted with his ministers: "That country is rich and its countless people are wealthy and content — I wish to take it, and if I go, I am sure to conquer it." His ministers all said, "We are glad to follow the king's wish," and he raised an army against the benevolent country. The ministers of the benevolent country heard of this and wished to resist. The benevolent king, grieved, said: "To save the bodies of countless people by means of my own single body, to love my own one life while destroying the lives of countless others — one mouth eating twice, one body wearing several sets of clothes — what quarrel is there worth this? Why should I abandon the virtue of springtime's heaven to seize the cruelty of a wolf? I would rather give up a single lifetime's span than give up my great resolve — to forgive myself and give peace to the multitude, this is the benevolence of heaven itself." He said to his ministers as a stratagem: "Withdraw for now — we will deliberate further tomorrow." That night he climbed over the city wall and fled into the mountains, where he sat beneath a tree. A brahmin came by, sixty years old, and asked the king: "Is the benevolent king of that country in good health, free of trouble?" He answered: "That king has already lost his life." The brahmin, hearing this, threw himself to the ground in grief. The king asked him: "Why do you grieve so deeply?" He answered: "I heard that king's kindness reached every living being, his grace like Śakra's own, and so I hurried here to entrust my life to him — and now he has perished, and I am old and destitute." The king said: "That benevolent king — I am he. The neighboring king, hearing how rich my country was, its people flourishing and its treasures many, commanded his warriors: 'Whoever brings me his head will be rewarded with a thousand male and a thousand female servants, a thousand horses, a thousand oxen, and a thousand catties each of gold and silver.' Now, if you take my head, with my golden crown and sword as proof, and bring them to that king, the reward will be very great, enough to provide for you for the rest of your life. My heart rejoices at this." He answered: "This is not benevolence but a betrayal of the Way — I would rather die than do such a thing." The king said: "This old man relies on me to live, and shall I let him remain destitute instead? I now give you my head as a gift, so that you bear no crime in taking it." He rose, bowed his head to the ten directions, and, weeping, made this vow: "Whatever living being is in danger, I will bring them peace; whoever turns their back on truth to follow what is false, I will bring them to take refuge in the Three Jewels. Now, with my head, I lift you out of your poverty, and you bear no crime in this." He drew his sword and took his own life, to relieve the old man's hardship. The brahmin, crowning his own head with the king's, carried the sword to that other king. The king asked his old ministers: "The benevolent king's strength was a match for a thousand men — how could this man have captured him?" The old ministers bowed their heads to the ground, so grieved they could not answer. He asked the brahmin again, and the brahmin told him the whole story from beginning to end. The countless people wept in the streets and alleys; some vomited blood, some breathed their last and became corpses where they stood. From the king down to his warriors, high and low alike, there was no one who did not wail in sorrow. The king looked up to heaven and sighed at length: "I have acted without the Way! I have destroyed heaven's own benevolent son." He took the benevolent king's body and head and joined them together with gold leaf, and seated the body upon the throne, ruling as the Son of Heaven for thirty-two years, after which he set up the benevolent king's own son as ruler. The neighboring kingdoms all loved him as their own child. When the benevolent king's life came to its end, he was reborn in the heavens. The Buddha said to the monks: "The benevolent king was I myself. The king of the neighboring country was Maudgalyāyana. That country's ministers are now these monks before me." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the crown prince of the king of Vārāṇasī was named Kalyāṇa; he had one brother, and when their father the king died, he yielded the throne to his brother rather than take it for himself, since no successor had been formally named. The elder brother took his wife and fled into the mountains to study the Way, settling by a riverbank. At that time, in another country, there was a condemned criminal whom the government had mutilated, cutting off his hands and feet, his nose and ears, and set him adrift on a broken raft. The condemned man cried out to heaven again and again. The ascetic, hearing him, was moved to grief and said: "What man is this, in such extreme suffering? To show great compassion, to risk one's own life for another's sake, to relieve the multitude of their hardship — this is the work of a great being." He threw himself into the water, breasting the waves and cutting across the current, drew the raft to shore, carried the man home on his back, and tended him with devoted care until his wounds healed and his life was whole. For four years he nursed him with tireless compassion. But the ascetic's wife was unfaithful, and secretly took up with the condemned man, and plotted to kill her husband, saying: "If you kill him, I will live with you." The condemned man said: "He is a worthy man — how could I kill him?" The wife repeated her words as before, and the condemned man said: "I have no hands or feet — I cannot kill him." The wife said: "Sit still — I have a plan of my own." She feigned a headache, and told her husband: "This must be the doing of a mountain spirit — I wish to appease it. Tomorrow, come with me to pray for good fortune." The husband said, "Very well." The next day they went to a cliff, forty leagues high, sheer on three sides, so fearsome that anyone who saw it trembled. The wife said: "For this rite, you must face the sun, and I will perform the offering." The husband faced the sun as told, and the wife pretended to circle him several times before shoving him off the cliff. Halfway down the mountainside there was a tree with dense, soft leaves; the ascetic, catching hold of its branches, was able to stand there, and its fruit was sweet and sustained him. Beside the tree lived a tortoise, who also fed on its fruit daily; seeing a man in the tree, it was afraid and would not approach. After five days of hunger, the ascetic, driven by need, reached carelessly for the fruit; neither harmed the other, and they gradually drew near one another. The ascetic leapt and mounted the tortoise's back; the tortoise, startled, leapt down to the ground below — and by the protection of a heavenly spirit, neither of them was harmed. He then made his way back to his former country, and his younger brother yielded the throne to him. He governed the country with the same self-forgiving, far-reaching compassion, relieving the multitude, giving alms daily, and within four hundred leagues, people, carts, horses, every treasure and provision of food were freely available to all, his kindness reaching out equally in every direction. His achievements and fame spread everywhere, and the ten directions praised his virtue. His wife, believing her husband dead, and not recognized by anyone in that country, carried the crippled condemned man into the kingdom and declared: "We are a married couple caught in the world's misfortunes, our bodies broken and withered; hearing of the Heavenly King's kindness and giving, we have come to beg." The people of the country, praising her for this, instructed her: "The Heavenly King's compassion is universal, reaching every living being — tomorrow he will go out the eastern gate to give alms. Go and meet him there; your virtuous conduct will be honored, and your reward will surely be great." The next day she came to beg from the king. The king recognized her silently, and told his ministers the whole story of his wife's past. One minister said, "She should be burned." Another said, "She should be beheaded." The minister in charge of law said: "No crime is greater than abandoning the true path to follow what is false, committing an act of such rebellion against nature. The wicked man should be nailed to the back of this poisonous woman, that he may bear the weight of her for the rest of his life." All the ministers said together, "Excellent" — "let her have exactly what she desired, and hold her to it plainly." The king governed by the ten virtues, and there was no one among his people who did not rejoice and honor him. The king, together with his ministers and people, at the end of their lives were all reborn in the heavens; the condemned man and his wife, at their deaths, fell into hell. The Buddha said to the monks: "The king of that time was I myself. The condemned man was Devadatta. The wife was the woman who bore the poisoned vessel." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago there was a king named Sarvadatta, which means "the one who gives all" — whatever was asked of him, he never refused. His giving was such that his name and fame spread to the eight directions, and there was no one who had not heard of him. At that time, Mañjuśrī, wishing to test him, transformed himself into a young brahmin and came from a foreign country to the gate of the king's palace, saying to the gatekeeper: "I have come from far away and wish to see the great king." The gatekeeper reported this at once. The king was overjoyed, and went out to receive him himself, as a son greeting a father, bowing before him and inviting him to be seated. He asked: "Renunciant, where have you traveled from? Was your journey not exhausting?" The visitor said: "In another country I heard of the king's virtue, and so I have come to see you — and now I wish to beg something of you." The king said: "Very good! Whatever you wish to have, do not hesitate to ask. I am called 'the one who gives all' — what is it you seek?" The brahmin said: "I want nothing else — I wish to have the king himself as my slave, and the king's wife as my servant. If you can do this, then come with me at once." The king was overjoyed, and answered: "Very good! As for myself, this can certainly be granted — I am willing to belong to you and serve at your command. But as for my wife, she is the daughter of a great king — I must go and ask her." The king went in and said to his wife: "There is now a renunciant, young and dignified, come from a distant land, who wishes to beg for my own person to use as a slave — and now he wishes as well to ask for you to be his servant. What should be done?" His wife said: "What did the king answer him?" The king said: "I have already granted myself as his slave, but I have not yet granted him you." His wife then said: "Would the king abandon me, gaining his own release while giving no thought to freeing me as well?" She then went out with the king at once, and said to the visitor: "I am willing to give my own person to serve the renunciant." The brahmin then said again to the king: "Is this truly so? I wish to leave now." The king said to the visitor: "I have practiced giving since birth, and have never once regretted it — I will follow you, renunciant." The visitor said: "You must follow me entirely barefoot, without shoes, exactly as a slave should, and you must not conceal anything." The king and his wife both said, "As you command. We follow our master's instruction, and dare not disobey." The brahmin then led the two servants along the road. Mañjuśrī, by his transformative power, placed a substitute in the king's place and his wife's place, to govern the country's affairs as before, exactly as they had been. The king's wife was originally the daughter of a great king, unrivaled in beauty, her hands and feet soft and delicate, raised deep within the palace, never having known cold or hardship. She was also several months pregnant. Walking behind her master, her whole body ached, the soles of her feet blistered and torn, until she could go no further, and fell far behind, utterly exhausted. The brahmin turned and scolded her: "Now that you are a servant, you must behave as a servant should — you cannot keep the manner you once had." The wife knelt and said: "I would not dare! I am only resting a moment from exhaustion." He shouted: "Hurry up, follow close behind me!" They came to the market of that country, where he sold the two slaves separately, to two different masters, each several leagues apart. A wealthy elder bought the man as a slave, and set him to guard a burial ground, collecting the fees owed by those who came to bury their dead there, without allowing any disturbance. As for the woman, the mistress of the household she was sold to was extremely jealous, and made her work morning and night without rest. Some days later, the servant-woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son; the mistress, furious, said: "You are a servant here — how dare you have this child?" and ordered him killed at once. Following her mistress's order, she killed her own child and went to bury him. Coming to where her husband was, they were able to see each other, and she said: "I gave birth to a son, and today he has already died. I have brought no money — might I still be allowed to bury him here without payment?" Her husband answered: "My master is very strict — if he learns of this, my punishment would not be small. Take him away quickly and find another place — you cannot stay here." Though the king and his wife were able to see each other in this way, they spoke nothing of their suffering, and neither harbored any resentment. And in the space of just this moment of speaking, as if in a dream, the king and his wife suddenly found themselves back in their own country, seated in the main hall of their own palace exactly as before, and all their ministers and palace women were there exactly as they had been, and the son who had been born to them was alive once more. The king and his wife, astonished in their hearts, wondered how this had come to be. Then Mañjuśrī appeared in the sky, seated upon a lotus of the seven treasures, showing his true radiant form, and praised them: "Excellent! Your giving has been as sincere and complete as this." The king and his wife leapt up in joy and came forward to bow before him. Mañjuśrī then taught them the Dharma; the three-thousandfold world shook greatly, and every person throughout the entire country gave rise to the unsurpassed, true and right resolve, and the king and his wife themselves attained at once the forbearance of the unarising Dharma. The Buddha said to Ānanda: "The king of that time was I myself. The wife of that time is now Yaśodharā. The son of that time is now Rāhula." The Buddha said: "Ānanda, in that past life I gave in this way, for the sake of all people, never begrudging my own body or life, and through countless kalpas I never once felt regret, seeking no glory or reward for myself, until I arrived at true and complete awakening on my own." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the king of the country of Yeba was named Śibi, called Sarvadatta; he governed his country with rectitude, and his people held no grievance against him. The king had a crown prince named Sudāna, whose bearing shone before the world, whose kindness and filial devotion could not be matched, who protected all beings equally through the four immeasurable virtues, and whose words never wounded anyone. The king treasured this one son beyond measure, and the prince served his parents as though they were heaven itself. From those with understanding he learned: "Always vow to give and relieve the multitude, that you may receive boundless blessing in ages to come. The foolish do not see the truth of impermanence, and think what they hold can be kept forever. The wise see that wealth belongs, in the end, to five different owners, and so they honor the practice of giving. The buddhas of the ten directions, the pratyekabuddhas, and the honored ones attached to nothing — none of them fail to praise giving as the treasure of this world." The prince then made his giving ever more abundant, his kindness reaching every living being. Whoever wished for clothing or food, he gave it at once upon hearing the request; gold, silver, every kind of treasure, carriages, horses, land and houses — nothing was ever refused to those who asked. His radiant fame spread far and wide, and all within the four seas sighed in wonder at it. The king had a white elephant, mighty and fierce, able to overcome sixty ordinary elephants in battle; whenever enemy states came to attack, this elephant always secured the victory. The kings of rival states deliberated together: "The prince is wise and sage-like, and refuses nothing anyone asks of him. Let us send eight brahmins to the prince, to beg for the white elephant. If they can obtain it, we will reward them greatly." Having received this charge, the brahmins set out at once, wearing deerskin robes and sandals, carrying water-vessels and staffs, traveling far, passing through district after district, over a thousand leagues, until they reached the country of Yeba. There, leaning on their staffs, standing on one foot before the palace gate, they said to the guards: "We have heard that the prince gives to the poor and needy, his grace reaching every living being, and so we have come from far away to beg for what we lack." The guards went in and reported this exactly as they had heard it. The prince, hearing this, rushed out joyfully to welcome them, as a son seeing his own parents, bowing his head and touching their feet, and comforted them, saying: "From where have you come, and how have your bodies endured such hardship? Why do you stand on only one foot to make your request?" They answered: "The prince's virtue and radiance are known throughout the eight directions, reaching up to the blue heavens and down to the yellow springs below, towering like Mount Tai itself — there is no one who does not sigh in admiration. As the son of gods and men, whatever you say is certain to be true. Since you truly honor the practice of giving and never disappoint anyone's hopes, we now wish to beg for the lotus-treading white elephant, named Rājavarddhana." The prince said: "Very good! Take also whatever gold, silver, and varied treasures you wish — do not hesitate on my account." He commanded his attendants at once to swiftly saddle the white elephant in gold and silver harness and bring it forth. With his left hand he held the elephant's harness, and with his right hand a golden vessel, and he washed the brahmins' hands himself, and with kindness and joy presented them the elephant. The brahmins, overjoyed, spoke their blessing, and, laughing together, mounted the elephant and departed. The chief ministers and all the officials of the state were dismayed, and said together: "This elephant's fierce strength was equal to sixty others — the country relied on it for its safety; whenever we clashed with an enemy, it always put them to flight. And now it has been given to a rival country — what shall we rely on now?" They came before the king together and said: "The white elephant, whose power could overcome sixty elephants, was this country's treasure against our enemies. And yet the prince gives it to our sworn enemies, our treasury growing emptier by the day, the prince giving without restraint and without rest — within a matter of years, we, your servants, fear that the whole country's wives and children will become objects given away." The king, hearing this, was grieved, and after a long silence said: "The prince delights in the Buddha's way, relieving the poor and destitute and nurturing all beings with compassion — this is the very foundation of proper conduct. To forcibly restrain him, to punish and imprison him, would itself be a betrayal of the Way." The officials all said together: "To instruct and correct him through proper discipline would not be wrong, but to imprison and punish him would be cruelty — how could we, your servants, propose such a thing? Let him be banished from the country and sent to live in the wilderness, that in ten years' time he may come to regret this himself and reform — this is our wish, we who serve you." The king then sent a messenger to proclaim this to the prince: "The elephant is a treasure of the state — why give it to our enemy? Though I cannot bear to punish you, you must leave the country at once." The messenger delivered this proclamation exactly as commanded. The prince answered: "I dare not disobey the command of heaven. I beg only for seven days, to complete my giving to the poor and needy, and I will leave the country without regret." The messenger reported this, and the king said: "He must leave at once — this is not permitted." The messenger returned and said, "The king's command will not be altered." The prince said again: "I dare not disobey the command of heaven. But I have my own private wealth, which I have not touched from the state's own treasury." The messenger reported this as well, and the king permitted it. The prince, overjoyed, commanded his attendants: "Whoever among the people of this country is poor and in need, urge them to come quickly, and grant them whatever they desire, without refusal. The land, office, houses, fields, and treasures of this world are all like illusions in a dream — none of them lasts forever." The people, great and small, hurried to the palace gate, and the prince gave freely of food, clothing, and the seven treasures of every kind, granting the people's every wish, until the poor had all become wealthy. His wife, named Madrī, was the daughter of a king, her beauty radiant and unmatched in the whole country, adorned from head to foot with jewels of the seven treasures. He said to his wife: "Rise and hear what I must say. The great king has banished me to Mount Daṇḍaka, for a term of ten years. Do you understand this?" His wife, startled, rose and looked at the prince, tears falling, and said: "What crime have you committed, that you should be driven out, giving up your kingdom's honor and glory to dwell deep in the mountains?" He answered his wife: "Because my giving has depleted the country's wealth, and I gave away the famous war-elephant, our greatest treasure, to our enemy — the king and his ministers, in their anger, have driven me out." His wife at once made her own vow: "May the country prosper, may the king, his ministers, and all the countless people find wealth and long life without limit — and let me set my own resolve on that mountain wilderness, to help fulfill your great vow there." The prince said: "That mountain wilderness is a place of terror — tigers and wolves and harmful beasts are hard to escape there. There are also poisonous insects, goblins, and vengeful spirits, thunder and lightning, wind and rain and fog, all fearsome beyond measure. The cold and heat pass to extremes, the trees offer little shelter, and the thorny brambles and stones are more than you could bear. You are the daughter of a king, born to glory and raised deep within the palace — your clothes have always been soft and fine, your food sweet and delicious, your bed curtained and canopied, surrounded always by pleasant sounds, every wish granted freely. Now, dwelling in the mountain wilds, sleeping on straw mats, eating wild fruit — this is not something a person could bear. How could you endure it?" His wife said: "What good are fine silks, curtained beds, and sweet delicacies to me, if I must live apart from the prince? When the great king travels, a banner marks his way; fire is marked by its smoke; a wife is marked by her husband — I rely on the prince as a child relies on its parent. When the prince gave to the four directions within the kingdom, I shared equally in that same vow. Now, when you must cross such dangers, should I remain behind alone, clinging to glory? How could that be the way of a loving wife? And if someone should come to beg while you have no wife present to help you give, your heart would be utterly bereft — I would surely die of it, without a doubt." The prince said: "People from distant lands come to beg for wives and children, and I have no heart to refuse them. If, out of attachment and longing for me, you should betray the way of giving and cut off entirely this vast flow of generosity, you would only ruin the great task I have taken on." His wife said: "The prince's giving is a rare thing in this world — you must complete this vast vow, and never grow weary of it. Through a hundred thousand myriad ages, no one has taken on so great a task as you, one that leads even to buddhahood — I would not dare stand in your way." The prince said, "Very well," and took his wife and children to bid farewell to his mother, bowing his head to the ground and speaking to her with deep sorrow: "I beg you to set aside your heavy grief and preserve your own precious health. The affairs of the kingdom are many and pressing — please offer your wise counsel often, and do not let your own freedom cause wrong to the heaven-given people of this land. One must endure what cannot be endured — patience itself is the true treasure." His mother, hearing this farewell, turned to her attendants and said: "My body feels like stone, my heart like hardened iron — I have only this one son, and now he is being driven away. What is left in my heart? Before I had a son, I prayed and vowed for an heir; through the months I carried him, I was like a tree holding its blossom, waiting day by day for it to open. Heaven did not deny my prayer and gave me this son — and now that he has grown to maturity, must I be parted from him forever?" Among the king's wives and concubines, those who were jealous of the prince's mother rejoiced at this, showing her no more respect than before. The prince, his wife, and children bowed and took their leave; within the palace, high and low, there was no one who did not choke back tears. Going out, he bid farewell to the officials and the common people in grief, and together they left the city. There was no one who did not whisper: "This prince is the country's own sacred treasure, the most honored of all its riches — what were his parents thinking, to drive him away?" The prince sat outside the city and thanked those who had come to see him off, sending them back to their homes. The countless people bowed down and wept together in mourning; some threw themselves to the ground and cried out to heaven, their voices shaking the whole country. Traveling on with his wife, knowing they had gone far from their own country, he sat beneath a tree. A brahmin came from far away to beg, and the prince took off his own jeweled robes and his wife's and children's pearls and gave them all away, and had his wife and children mount the carriage while he himself took up the reins. As they set out again, they met another brahmin who came asking for the horse, and he gave the horse away as well, and drew the carriage himself between the shafts. They met yet another brahmin who came asking for the carriage, and he at once brought down his wife and children and gave the carriage away too. The prince's carriage, horse, robes, and every treasure and possession were now entirely gone, and he had his wife carry their daughter while he himself carried their son. While he had still been in the kingdom, he had given away the famous elephant and every treasure and carriage, and even now, being driven out and stripped of everything, he never once felt anger or regret, and went into the mountains with a peaceful heart and gladness. After three weeks, twenty-one days, they at last reached Mount Daṇḍaka. The prince saw that the mountain's trees grew thick and lush, its flowing springs sweet and pure, its fruit abundant, with ducks, geese, and mandarin ducks playing among them, and a hundred kinds of birds calling mournfully to one another. Seeing this, the prince said to his wife: "Look at this mountain — its trees reach to the sky, hardly a branch broken; the birds cry out in sorrow, and springs are found everywhere, with abundant fruit to sustain us. Let us devote ourselves only to the Way, and never betray our vow." Among the mountain's ascetics, all held fast to their discipline and loved learning; there was one ascetic named Acyuta, who had long dwelt in the mountains and possessed a profound and subtle virtue. The prince, with his wife and children, went to him, bowed his head, and, standing with hands joined, said: "I have brought my wife and children here to study the Way — I beg you to extend your vast compassion, and teach and complete my resolve." The ascetic instructed him, and the prince followed his teaching, building a hut of brush and grass, binding up his hair, wearing garments of woven grass, eating fruit and drinking from the springs. His son was named Jāli, and, wearing small clothes of woven grass, followed his father in and out; his daughter was named Kṛṣṇājinā, and, wearing a robe of deerskin, followed her mother in and out. After they had dwelt in the mountains for a single night, heaven itself, in response, made the springs increase and grow sweeter still, and medicinal plants and trees bearing famous fruits grew lush around them. Later, there was an old and poor brahmin of Kuru county, whose wife was young, her face fair and lovely, who went daily to draw water carrying her jar. On the road she met some young men who blocked her way and mocked her, saying: "You live in poverty with nothing to sustain you — you're only greedy for that old man's wealth, hoping to make your home secure. But that old fellow, for all his learning of the Way, has achieved nothing at all — hardly one in a thousand ever does. He is foolish, stubborn, and unyielding — what is it you're actually after? His face is ugly and dark, his nose flat and crooked, his body twisted and bent, his face wrinkled, his lips drooping, his speech stuttering, his eyes a sickly color — he looks like some kind of ghost, nothing at all pleasing about his whole appearance — who could fail to despise him? As his wife, do you feel no shame or disgust?" Hearing her husband mocked in this way, the wife wept and said: "I see that old man's beard and hair are entirely white now, like frost settled on a tree. Morning and night I hope for his death to come soon — but my wish has not yet been granted, and there's nothing I can do about it." She went home to her husband and told him exactly what had happened, saying: "If you had a servant, I would not have to fetch water myself. If things go on as they are, I will leave you." The husband said: "I am poor — how could I ever obtain a servant?" His wife said: "I have heard that the greatest giver in the world is the prince named Sudāna, whose vast compassion in relieving the multitude has emptied his own country's treasury, so that the king and his ministers banished him to the mountains. He has two children — ask, and he will give them to you." His wife spoke of this again and again, and, unable to refuse his beloved wife, he followed her wish and went to the country of Yeba, and stood at the palace gate, asking: "Is the prince at peace?" The guard reported this within. The king, hearing this news, felt his heart clench, tears flowing freely, and after a moment said: "The prince was driven out because of people just like this — and now this fellow comes again?" He had the man brought in, treated him kindly, and asked his purpose. He answered: "The prince's fragrant virtue is sung of near and far, and so I have come from afar to entrust myself to him, hoping to find some relief." The king said: "The prince has already given away every treasure he had, and now dwells deep in the mountains, without even enough clothing and food for himself — what could he possibly give you?" He answered: "His virtue rises higher and higher — I have come from far away simply out of longing for it; even to see his face once more would leave me without regret, even at the moment of death." The king had someone show him the way. On the road he met a hunter, who asked him: "You have passed through these mountains — have you seen the prince, by any chance?" The hunter had long known the reason for the prince's banishment, and, flaring with anger, cursed him: "I should cut off your head — asking about the prince, indeed!" The brahmin, terrified, thought to himself: "I am certainly going to be killed by this man!" and, as a stratagem, lied: "The king and his ministers have sent for the prince to return to the country and become king." The hunter said, "Very good!" and happily showed him the way. From a distance he saw a small hut, and the prince also saw him coming. His two children, seeing him, were struck with dread, and the brother and sister said to each other: "Our father still loves to give, and now this man comes — our wealth is entirely gone, with nothing left to replace it, so he is sure to give us away to him." Hand in hand, they fled together. Their mother had long ago dug a hiding place that could hold a person; the two children went in and covered themselves with brushwood, warning each other: "If father calls, do not answer." The prince looked up and asked the visitor to come sit before him, and set out fruit and drink. After he had eaten and drunk, the prince comforted him, saying: "You must be exhausted from such a long journey!" He answered: "I have come from far away, and my whole body aches, and I am terribly hungry and thirsty besides. The prince's fragrant fame is praised in all eight directions, its glory reaching far and wide, towering like Mount Tai — among gods and spirits of heaven and earth, who does not admire it? And so I have come from afar in my poverty, hoping to extend what little life remains to me." The prince, moved with compassion, said: "My wealth is gone, but I begrudge nothing." The brahmin said: "Then let your two children serve and support this old man." He answered: "You have come from far away to ask for my children — I have no heart to refuse you." The prince called out to them, and the brother and sister, frightened, said to each other again: "Father is calling for us — he is surely going to give us to that demon," and, disobeying, did not answer. The prince, discovering where they hid, uncovered the brushwood, and the children came out and clung to their father, trembling and weeping, crying out: "That is a demon! Not a brahmin at all! We have seen many brahmins, and none of them ever looked like that — do not let us become food for a demon! Why is mother taking so long to bring back fruit? Today we will surely die, eaten by a demon. When mother comes back looking for us, she will be like a mother cow searching for her calf, running wild in grief. Father will surely regret this." The prince said: "Since I was born I have practiced giving, and never once felt the slightest regret — I have already promised him, and you must not disobey." The brahmin said: "If you give them to me out of universal compassion, and their mother returns before I leave, she will surely destroy this act of grace and go against my own true wish — it would be better for me to leave quickly." The prince said: "You have come from so far away seeking my children — I will never disobey you. Let us proceed at once." The prince washed his right hand, and, holding the children with his left, handed them to the brahmin. The brahmin said: "I am old and my strength is failing — if the children run off to find their mother, how could I ever catch them? In your great generosity, please bind them and give them to me that way." The prince held the children while the brahmin bound them, and with his own hand took hold of the end of the rope. The two children threw themselves down and writhed before their father, wailing and crying out for their mother: "Gods and spirits of heaven and earth, spirits of the mountain trees, take pity on us — tell our mother's heart: 'Your two children have been given away — put down that fruit and hurry, that you may see them once more.'" Their grief moved heaven and earth, and the mountain spirits themselves, moved to sorrow, made a great sound like a peal of thunder. Their mother, gathering fruit at that moment, felt her heart suddenly uneasy; she looked up at the blue sky and saw no sign of rain or cloud, yet her right eye twitched and her left armpit itched, and both her breasts began flowing with milk one after another. She thought to herself: "This is a very strange omen! What use is this fruit to me now?" She abandoned the fruit and turned back at once, frantic as though gone mad. Śakra thought to himself: "The bodhisattva's resolve rises ever higher, and he means to complete the weighty burden of his great vow — but his wife, returning now, might ruin his lofty resolve." He transformed himself into a lion and crouched in the road. The wife said: "You are the king of beasts, and I too am the wife of a prince among men — we both dwell on this same mountain. I have two children, both still very young, who have had nothing to eat since morning and are waiting for me now." The lion moved aside, and the wife was able to pass. Turning back onto the path ahead, Śakra transformed himself into a white wolf, and the wife spoke to it just as before, and the wolf too moved aside. He then transformed into a tiger, and, since the brahmin was now far ahead, at last withdrew. The wife returned and saw the prince sitting alone, and, filled with dread, said: "Where are my children? They have not come now, when they always wait for me and rush to meet me the moment I return, falling and rising again in their eagerness, leaping and laughing with joy, saying, 'Mother is back! Your hungry children can eat now!' Now I do not see them — have you given them away? I would sit and the children would stand at my sides, and if I had dust on me, they would rush to brush it off together. Now the children do not come, and I do not see where they have gone — to whom have you given them? Tell me at once. I prayed to heaven and earth, longing with all my heart, and at last was granted such fine children. Now their playthings — a clay elephant, a clay ox, a clay horse, a clay pig, all sorts of little toys — lie scattered on the ground, and seeing them my heart is overwhelmed, and I feel I am going mad. Have they been devoured by tigers, wolves, demons, or thieves?" She said: "Release me from this anguish at once, or I will surely die!" The prince, after a long silence, said: "A brahmin came, asking for the two children, saying: 'My years are nearly spent, my life is fragile, and I wish to sustain myself.' I gave them to him." Hearing this, his wife, overcome, threw herself to the ground, writhing in grief, tears flowing, and said: "This is exactly as in my dream! Last night I dreamed I saw an old, destitute, poverty-stricken brahmin cut off both my breasts and carry them away, running swiftly — this was surely a sign of what has now happened." She wept and cried out to heaven, and her grief shook the whole mountain. She said: "My children are gone — should I go now and search for them?" Seeing his wife's grief growing ever more extreme, the prince said to her: "I originally vowed with you to uphold and follow devoted conduct together — my resolve is set on the great Way, to relieve all living beings, refusing no request made of me; this vow has been utterly clear from the start. Why now, in your grief, do you seek to disturb my resolve?" His wife said: "The prince seeks the Way — how could such hardship not exist along that path? A man's household depends on his wife and children being at his own command in all things — how much more so for one honored above all men? My prayer is only this: 'Whatever is sought, may it be granted, as though by the wisdom that knows all things.'" Śakra and the gods of heaven deliberated together: "The prince has expanded the Way through universal giving, holding nothing back — let us test him through his wife, and see what is truly in his heart." Śakra transformed himself into a brahmin and came before him, saying: "I have heard that you hold the benevolence of heaven and earth within you, relieving all living beings universally, giving without ever refusing — and so I have come to entrust my own feelings to you. Your wife is virtuous and chaste, and her fragrant fame is heard far and wide — and so I have come to beg for her. Might you be willing to give her to me?" He answered: "Very good!" With his right hand he poured water to wash the brahmin's hands, and with his left hand took hold of his wife, about to hand her over. The gods of heaven praised this with wishes for his long life, and there was no one who did not sigh in admiration; heaven and earth shook violently all at once, and there was no person or spirit who was not astonished. The brahmin said: "Stop! I will not take her." He answered: "Does this woman have some fault? A woman's faults, she has none at all — every rule of a wife's proper conduct, she fulfills to the utmost. Her father the king had only this one daughter, and she has served her husband with complete propriety, never shrinking from the hardest circumstances, content with the barest clothing and food, never seeking fine delicacies, diligent and strong, her beauty surpassing all others. If you take her, it would be my own joy — nothing could better remove my burden." The brahmin said: "Her virtue and swiftness of mind are truly as you say — with respect, I accept her. But I entrust her back to you now — I do not wish to give her to anyone else." He then said: "I am Śakra, lord of the gods, not an ordinary man of this world — I came to test you. Your reflection of the Buddha's wisdom is truly beyond compare — what is it you wish for now? Ask freely, and it shall be granted." The prince said: "I wish to obtain great wealth, and to continue delighting in giving, without greed, more than ever before; and I wish that my father the king and the people of my country might long to see me again." Śakra said, "Very good!" and vanished at once. The brahmin, overjoyed at having gotten what he wished, walked on without feeling his own fatigue, leading the two children along, hoping to make use of them as servants. The children, grandchildren of a king, accustomed to freedom and comfort, now separated from their parents and bound with rope, their skin chafed and wounded wherever the ropes touched, wept and cried out for their mother as he whipped them onward. When the brahmin lay down to sleep, the two children slipped away and hid themselves in a pond, covering themselves with reeds, until aquatic insects covered their bodies. Waking, he searched and found them again, and beat them with his staff without restraint, until blood flowed and reddened the ground. The heavenly spirits, moved to pity, loosened their bonds and healed their wounds, made sweet fruit grow for them, and softened the ground beneath them. The brother and sister picked the fruit and fed each other, saying: "This fruit is as sweet as the fruit in our own garden; this ground is as soft as the silk cushions beside our father's throne." Leaning on each other, they looked up to heaven and cried out for their mother, tears covering their bodies. Wherever the brahmin walked, the ground was rocky and jagged, thorns and brambles cutting his body and the soles of his feet, the wounds burning with pain; whenever he saw fruit, some of it was bitter and harsh — the brahmin's skin hung loose on his bones, while the children's skin remained smooth and glossy, their complexions restored as before. Arriving home, he said with delight: "I have obtained two servants for you, to use as you wish." His wife, seeing the children, said: "These are no servants — these children are refined and handsome, their hands and feet delicate and fine, unfit for labor. Take them and sell them, and buy others to serve us instead." So, at his wife's bidding, he set out for another country, but the gods confused his path, and he found himself back in his original homeland instead. The people recognized the children at once, saying together: "These are the prince's own children! The great king's own grandchildren!" and, choking with emotion, hurried to the palace gate to report this. The king had the brahmin bring the children into the palace; within the palace, high and low alike, there was no one who did not weep. The king reached out to embrace them, but the two children would not come to him. The king asked, "Why not?" The children said: "We were once the king's own grandchildren — now we are servants. How could servants, so lowly, dare sit upon the king's own lap?" He asked the brahmin: "How did you come to have these children?" He told him exactly what had happened. The king asked: "For how much did you buy the children?" Before the brahmin could answer, the grandson spoke up quickly: "My price is a thousand silver coins and a hundred bulls; my sister's price is two thousand gold coins and two hundred cows." The king said: "The boy, though older, is priced lower, and the girl, though younger, is priced higher — is there a reason for this?" He answered: "The prince is both a sage and a man of complete benevolence, his grace equal to that of heaven and earth, beloved by all the world, as a child relies on its own parent — he attained the world's most brilliant renown, and yet was driven out and abandoned in the mountain wilderness, dwelling among tigers, wolves, and poisonous creatures, eating fruit and wearing grass, exposed to thunder and storm — wealth and possessions are things of no more worth than straw to him, and he cast them aside without a thought, and this is why we know the boy is of lesser price. As for the ordinary daughters of common people, valued only for their beauty and kept deep within palace walls, sleeping on silk cushions beneath jeweled canopies, wearing the finest garments of the realm and eating the tribute of the whole world — this is why the girl is of greater worth." The king said: "An eight-year-old child speaks with such lofty understanding — how much more so his father!" Within the palace, high and low alike, hearing this indirect reproach, all began to mourn together. The brahmin said: "A thousand silver coins, and a hundred bulls and a hundred cows — if you wish to give me this, very well; if not, that is fine too." The king said, "Agreed," and paid him the exact sum, and the brahmin departed. The king held his two grandchildren on his lap and said: "A moment ago you would not come to me — why do you come so readily now?" They answered: "A moment ago we were servants; now we are the king's own grandchildren." He asked: "While your father dwelt in the mountains, what did he live on?" The two children answered together: "Only wild greens and fruit from the trees sustained us. Day after day we took our joy among the birds and beasts, and our hearts held no sorrow." The king sent a messenger to welcome the prince home. As the messenger traveled, the trees of the mountain bent and swayed as though bowing in greeting, and a hundred birds cried out in mournful, moving song. The prince said, "What omen is this?" His wife, lying on the ground, said: "Father's heart has softened, and a messenger comes to welcome us home — the spirits themselves rejoice, and this is why these signs appear." Ever since the loss of her children, the wife had lain upon the ground; when the messenger arrived, she rose at last and bowed to receive the king's command. The messenger said: "The king and queen have given up eating, weeping constantly, their bodies growing weaker day by day, longing to see the prince again." The prince looked about him, filled with longing for the trees and flowing springs of the mountain, then wiped away his tears and mounted the carriage. From the moment the messenger had set out, the whole country rejoiced; the roads were cleared and swept, curtains and canopies set up in advance, incense burned and flowers scattered, music played, banners and parasols raised, the whole country hurrying joyfully, wishing him boundless long life. The prince entered the city, bowed his head in apology for his past fault, and withdrew to attend to his parents. The king then entrusted the entire treasury of the kingdom to the prince, and encouraged him to give as he wished. The poor and troubled people of neighboring countries came to submit to him one after another, like countless rivers flowing into the sea. Old grudges were entirely dissolved; rival states bowed and declared themselves his vassals, offering tribute one after another. Even bandits and thieves came to honor his benevolence, vying with each other to give; weapons of war were put away and stored, and prisons were torn down. All living beings found lasting peace, and the ten directions praised him as good. His accumulated virtue never ceasing, he at last attained the state of Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, of true and right awakening, the most perfectly enlightened, the guide of the Dharma and teacher of gods and men, walking alone through the three realms as the king of all sages. The Buddha said to the monks: "I took upon myself the weighty task entrusted by all the buddhas, vowing to relieve every living being, and though I endured the most extreme suffering, I have now become the one honored above all, without equal. The prince, at the end of that life, was reborn in Tuṣita Heaven; and from that heaven he came down and was born to King Śuddhodana — that is myself, here before you now. The father-king was Ānanda. The wife was Yaśodharā. The son was Rāhula; the daughter is now the arhat Vajrā's mother. Śakra, lord of the gods, was Maitreya. The hunter was Udāyin. The ascetic Acyuta was Mahākāśyapa. The brahmin who bought the children was Devadatta. His wife is now Devadatta's own wife, Cañcā. Through countless past lives I have endured such hardship, and never once, out of fear, did I go back on my great vow." He taught this teaching of giving for the sake of his disciples. This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.