Fascicle 3

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī. The Buddha said to the monks: "Long ago there was a king named Sunetra, who governed with benevolence and fairness, loving his people as his own children, ruling the country by the true Dharma, so that the people held no resentment. His country was vast, its districts many, its borders thriving, its five grains ripening in abundance, free of calamity and harm, and its people lived for eighty thousand years. King Sunetra issued clear instructions within his palace, to the queen, the noble consorts, the hundred officials and attendants, and the ministers who upheld the law, teaching them all the true Dharma, each governing their own charge. The king always held a compassionate heart, grieving for living beings, sorrowful over their foolish delusion and reckless self-destruction, and, seeking always the root of the Way, delighted in adding to it without end, protecting living beings with pity as Śakra himself does. Killing, stealing, sexual misconduct, divisive speech, harsh speech, false speech, and idle chatter, envy, anger, and delusion — none of these evils remained in his heart. He was filial and reverent to his parents, honored and loved his nine classes of relatives, sought out and honored the worthy, revered the sages, believed in the Buddha, believed in the Dharma, believed the words of renunciants, believed that good deeds bring blessing and evil deeds bring disaster — and with this loyal governance and the ten virtues as his clear law, he practiced it in his own person. He commanded further that from his queens and consorts down to the lowliest servant girls, all should honor and follow this teaching and strive together toward goodness, and he proclaimed it to the people of all four garrisons, high and low, that all should recite it in their hearts and carry it out in their conduct. "There was a poor man in the country who, unable to bear his poverty and hardship, resorted in desperation to theft; the owner of the property caught him and reported it to the king. The king said: 'Did you steal?' The thief said: 'I truly stole.' The king said: 'Why did you steal?' The thief said: 'I am truly too poor to support myself, and so, against the clear law of the sage, I walked through fire and committed theft.' The king, moved with sorrow, honored his utter sincerity, and, ashamed within himself, sighed at length and said: 'When the people go hungry, it is I who starve them; when the people go cold, it is I who leave them unclothed.' He said further: 'I have the power to ensure this country has no poor at all — the suffering and joy of my people rest with me alone.' He then declared a great amnesty throughout the country, opened his treasury and gave its jewels to relieve the poor and needy, giving food and drink to the hungry and thirsty, clothing to the cold, medicine to the sick, land, houses, gold, silver, pearls, carriages, horses, oxen, and money to whoever asked for them, and even birds, beasts, and every crawling creature, grain and fodder, were given according to what each desired. "From the time the king began this giving, the country prospered and its people grew wealthy, and together they followed the Way. No one among the people killed, stole another's property, violated another's wife, spoke divisively, harshly, falsely, or idly, or harbored envy, anger, or delusion; such wicked and foolish hearts quietly dissolved away, and all came to believe in the Buddha, believe in the Dharma, believe in renunciants, believe that goodness brings blessing and evil brings disaster. The whole country lived in harmony and joy; the rod and the lash went unused; enemies declared themselves vassals; weapons of war rotted away in storage; the prisons held no prisoners; the people praised him, saying, 'How fortunate we are to have been born in this age!' The gods, dragons, and spirits all rejoiced and helped him, protecting his country; every poison and harm was exhausted, the five grains ripened in abundance, every household had surplus wealth, and the king himself, filled with quiet joy, attained five blessings: first, long life; second, a countenance that grew more radiant day by day; third, virtue and merit renowned in all eight directions, above and below; fourth, freedom from illness, his strength increasing daily; and fifth, peace within all four borders, his heart always joyful. "When the king's life later came to its end, he was, like a strong and healthy man who has eaten his fill and sleeps soundly, suddenly reborn above in the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven. The people of his country, upholding the king's ten precepts, none of them entered the paths of hell, hungry ghosts, or animals; when their lives ended, their spirits all rose to heaven." The Buddha said to the monks: "The King Sunetra of that time was I myself." The monks, hearing this teaching, all rejoiced greatly, bowed to the Buddha, and departed.

Thus the Buddha spoke the Sūtra of the Four Brahmin Householders. Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī. At that time there were four brahmin families who had met with misfortune from past lives and were extremely poor and destitute, wearing clothes of straw and sitting on mats of straw, sustaining themselves on plain vegetable gruel; yet, however extreme their poverty, their feet never trod the halls of the unrighteous, their hands never took the gifts of the unrighteous, their will and conduct remained pure, and no wickedness could stain their hearts. Morning and evening they recited and discussed the teaching, the scriptures and precepts never leaving their lips, praised by the World-Honored One and respected by every person of wisdom; though their own clothing and food were insufficient, they still served and supported the community of monks, never once neglecting, in a single day, to offer whatever vegetable gruel and straw mats their household possessed. The monks said among themselves: "These four families are so poor, always with a hungry look about them — we cannot go on accepting their ordinary meals. The scriptures teach that a renunciant should hold single-mindedly to the truth, that the precepts should be complete and one's conduct lofty, one's will like heavenly gold, treasuring nothing of wealth or beauty but the Dharma alone, cutting off entirely the six hungers, vowing to be free of want — how then could we feel any shame in refusing their alms?" Together they went before the Buddha and told him this from beginning to end. The World-Honored One remained silent. Some days later, the four families came in person to the monastery, bowed their heads, and sat to one side. The Buddha, recalling what the monks had said to him earlier, asked the four families: "Have you been giving each day, out of kindness, to support the monks?" They answered: "Yes indeed. Our whole household offers something every day — we only regret that, being poor, our vegetable gruel and straw mats have wrongly troubled the worthy and the sagely, and that we have offered them in such silence." The Blessed One said: "The practice of giving rests on four intentions: a heart of loving-kindness toward the recipient, a heart of compassion following after them in sympathy, a heart of joy at their attainment, and a heart of protection for the relief of living beings. Even if what is given is meager, one who gives with these four intentions will, in lives to come, always be born in heaven or among humans, and whatever they wish for will come naturally — sight, hearing, smell, taste, fine clothing for the body, and a heart always joyful, never fearing want. "But if one gives out of meagerness of heart, and the heart itself is not glad in the giving, the blessing received afterward will be the most meager kind of blessing. Even office and rank, even the seven treasures, will bring no true glory to one in this meager state; the heart, still stingy and grasping, will not dare to enjoy food or clothing, always anxious and uneasy, never once truly joyful, hungry and cold as though begging, living for nothing and dying for nothing, with no true good to rely on. And if one gives something fine but without a sincere heart, proud and self-satisfied, the body not truly reverent in the act, seeking only an outward show and a far-reaching name for oneself — though one may later have a little wealth, and the world may falsely call it a fortune, still one lives in constant fear of being robbed of it, one's clothing always meager, one's food never truly savored — this too is living for nothing and dying for nothing. Monks will never once set foot at such a person's gate; they remain far from the Three Jewels and forever close to the paths of evil. But to give what is fine, with the four immeasurable virtues held in reverence, measuring the gift out with one's own hand, mindful always of the Three Jewels, vowing that living beings may meet the Buddha and rise to heaven, that bitter suffering may be dissolved, that whatever is wished for in future lives may all be attained — meeting the Buddha, being born in heaven — this will certainly be granted, exactly as one has vowed." [This chapter, in a separate edition, appears after the Sūtra of King Sarvadatta.]

Long ago there was a brahmin named Vairāmbha, of the highest and most honored rank, a wheel-turning emperor of the skies, his wealth beyond reckoning, whose nature delighted in giving: famous women of the finest beauty, adorned with garments that outshone the world, he gave away to others; golden bowls filled with silver grain, silver bowls filled with golden grain, washing-vessels and basins of the four treasures interlaid; golden and silver cooking-vessels holding a hundred flavors; fine cattle from Qin, each with its horns sheathed in gold, each giving four pints of milk a day, together with their calves, woven into treasured garments studded with bright pearls; couches, curtains, and canopies gleaming with jeweled strands; famous elephants and fine horses saddled and bridled in gold and silver, adorned with every treasure; carriages with flowered canopies, seats of tiger skin, carved and engraved with every fine ornament — from the famous women down to the jeweled carriages, each kind of gift numbered one thousand and eighty-four, and all of it he gave away to others. Vairāmbha's kindness and giving moved gods, dragons, and good spirits in all eight directions, above and below, to rejoice and help him. "Yet as great as Vairāmbha's giving was, relieving the common multitude for his entire lifetime without a single day's weariness, it does not compare to feeding, for even one day, a single laywoman who keeps the precepts fully — the blessing of that single meal outweighs his giving beyond all reckoning. And feeding a hundred such laywomen does not compare to feeding, for one meal, a single layman who keeps the precepts fully. Feeding a hundred such laymen does not compare to feeding, for one meal, a single nun free of faults. Feeding a hundred such nuns does not compare to feeding one novice monk of lofty conduct. Feeding a hundred such novices does not compare to feeding a single monk whose precepts are complete and whose conduct is pure inside and out, free of all defilement. Ordinary people are like tile and stone; one of complete precepts and lofty conduct is like a moon-bright pearl — tile and stone might fill the whole world, and still not equal a single true pearl. "And great as Vairāmbha's giving was, even reaching the level of feeding the many who keep the precepts fully, it does not compare to feeding a single stream-enterer. A hundred stream-enterers do not compare to a single once-returner. A hundred once-returners do not compare to a single non-returner. A hundred non-returners do not compare to feeding a single arhat. "And even Vairāmbha's earlier giving, and feeding all these sages and worthies, does not compare to serving one's own parents with filial devotion. True filial devotion holds nothing back and harbors no private selfishness. A hundred lifetimes of filial devotion to one's parents does not compare to feeding a single pratyekabuddha. A hundred pratyekabuddhas do not compare to feeding a single buddha. A hundred buddhas do not compare to establishing a single stūpa, or to holding to the three refuges — taking refuge in the Buddha, in the Dharma, and in the community of monks. To hold fully to kindness and not kill; to hold to purity and not steal; to hold to chastity and not violate another's spouse; to hold to trustworthiness and not deceive; to be filial and reverent and not become intoxicated; to keep the five precepts and observe the six fast days each month — this blessing towers higher, surpassing even Vairāmbha's ten thousand kinds of famous gifts and his feeding of every worthy and sage, and is exceedingly difficult to reckon. "And keeping the precepts does not compare to nurturing all living beings with an equal, compassionate heart — that blessing is inexhaustible. Even if one's food is only vegetable gruel and one's seat only a straw mat, if one holds to the three refuges, embraces the four immeasurable minds, and keeps the five precepts fully, that blessing can outweigh the mountains and seas — it is beyond all reckoning." The Buddha said to the four families: "If you wish to know who Vairāmbha was — I myself am he." The four families, hearing this teaching, rejoiced greatly in their hearts, bowed, and departed.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the deer, his body tall and grand, his fur of five colors, his hooves and antlers of rare and elegant form; thousands of deer submitted to him and followed as his herd. When the king went out hunting, the herd scattered in every direction, plunging over cliffs, falling into pits, crashing through trees, and being pierced by thorns, so that many were injured or killed. Seeing this, the deer king choked back tears and said: "I am the leader of this herd, and I ought to have chosen our grazing ground with clear judgment; instead, for the sake of sweet grass, I let us wander into this place, and now the young and weak among the herd are broken and destroyed — the fault is mine." He went straight into the city, and the people, seeing him, said together: "Our king's virtue has reached the highest benevolence, and a divine deer has come to us" — and they took it as an omen of good fortune for the kingdom, and no one dared harm him. He came before the throne and, kneeling, said: "This lowly beast clings to life like any other, entrusting its fate to the bounds of your kingdom. We suddenly met your hunters, and our kind scattered in flight — some lost their families, some died in disorder. Heaven's own kindness extends to all creatures — this is truly a pitiable thing. I beg to select from among ourselves, and offer one deer daily to your royal kitchen, so that you may know our exact number, and we will not dare deceive the king." The king, greatly astonished, said: "The royal kitchen uses no more than one deer a day — I did not know that so many of your kind were dying. If it is truly as you say, I vow never to hunt again." "The deer king returned and summoned the whole herd, explaining fully this plan and its consequences, both fortune and misfortune. The herd listened obediently, and arranged among themselves an order of succession. Whoever's turn it was to go would, before facing death, come and take leave of the king; the king wept for each of them, and taught them, saying: 'Every being in this world must die — who has ever escaped it? As you go, hold the Buddha in mind, and toward that human king, be careful never to harbor resentment!' Day after day it went on like this. Among them there was one whose turn had come but who was heavy with young, and she said: 'I do not dare avoid death, but I beg to wait until after I have given birth.' Another deer was chosen to go in her place; but that next deer, bowing his head and weeping, said: 'I too must go to my death without complaint. But I still have one day and one night of life left, however brief — when the time truly comes, I will hold no regret.' "The deer king, unable to bear seeing this deer's life taken unjustly out of turn, went the next day of his own accord, quietly leaving the herd, and presented himself at the royal kitchen. The kitchen staff recognized him and reported this at once to the king. The king asked the reason, and the deer king answered exactly as before. The king, deeply moved, wept and said: 'How could it be that a mere beast should hold within it the benevolence of heaven and earth, risking its own life to save the multitude, walking the very path of ancient sages' great compassion! I, who am a ruler of men, kill living beings' lives every day to fatten my own body. I delight in cruelty and violence — am I not conducting myself like a jackal or a wolf? This beast holds such benevolence, honoring the very virtue of heaven itself.' The king sent the deer king back to his herd, and commanded throughout the kingdom: 'Whoever harms one of these deer shall be punished as though he had harmed a human being.' "From that time on, the king and all his officials led the people to follow this transformation, and the people upheld benevolence and refrained from killing, its grace extending even to the grass and trees, and the kingdom at last knew great peace. The bodhisattva, life after life, risked his own life to save other beings, and through this his merit was accomplished and his virtue grew ever greater, until at last he became the most honored and heroic of all." The Buddha said to the monks: "The deer king of that time was I myself. The king was Śāriputra." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as a swan, and had three chicks. At that time there was a great drought in the country, and she had nothing with which to feed them, so she tore open the flesh under her own wing to sustain their lives. The three chicks, growing suspicious, said to one another: "The taste and smell of this flesh is no different from our mother's own body — could it be that our mother is feeding us with the flesh of her own body?" The three chicks were struck with grief and sorrow, and said: "We would rather lose our own lives than harm our mother's body," and so they closed their beaks and would not eat. Their mother, seeing them refuse to eat, offered it to them again. A heavenly spirit, moved, said: "A mother's kindness and giving is beyond description, and her children's filial devotion is a rare thing indeed." The gods gave their blessing, and every wish was granted exactly as hoped." The Buddha said to the monks: "The mother swan was I myself. The three chicks were Śāriputra, Maudgalyāyana, and Ānanda." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave. [This chapter, in a separate edition, appears after the chapter on Vairāmbha.]

Long ago the bodhisattva was the king of the peacocks, with five hundred peacock wives, but he set aside his own former mate and desired instead a blue sparrow-hen as his wife. The blue sparrow ate only sweet dew and fine fruit, and the peacock king went out each day to gather it for her. The queen of that country's king fell ill, and dreamed she saw a peacock, and was told in the dream that its flesh could serve as medicine. Waking, she reported this, and the king ordered his hunters to go at once and seek it out. The queen said: "Whoever can capture it, I will give him my youngest daughter in marriage, and reward him with a hundred catties of gold." "The kingdom's hunters spread out to search, and found the peacock king together with a single blue sparrow at their usual feeding place; they smeared honey on the trees at that spot, and the peacock, as always, gathered it for his wife. The hunter smeared honey on his own body and lay hidden, still as a corpse; when the peacock came to take the honey, the man seized him. The peacock said: 'Your labor and effort must surely be for some gain. Let me show you a mountain of gold, an inexhaustible treasure — spare my life in return.' The man said: 'The great king has promised me a hundred catties of gold and his youngest daughter in marriage — why should I believe your words?' and he presented the peacock to the king. "The peacock said: 'The great king holds benevolence in his heart, and his grace reaches everywhere without exception — I beg you to accept my humble words. Let me have a little water, and I will bless it with a compassionate incantation; drink it, and the illness will be cured at once. If it has no effect, it will not be too late to punish me then.' The king followed his suggestion; the queen drank it, and every illness was cured, her complexion glowing radiant, and the palace women likewise. The whole kingdom praised the king's vast compassion in sparing the peacock's life, through which the lives of the entire kingdom were extended. "The peacock then said: 'I wish to be allowed to go to that great lake, and bless its waters with my incantation as well, so that the common people of the realm may have their many illnesses cured. If you have any doubt of this, strike my foot with a rod as a guarantee.' The king said, 'Very well.' The peacock then blessed the lake. The people of the kingdom who drank of it — the deaf could hear, the blind could see, the mute could speak, the crippled could stand upright — every affliction was healed in this way. "With the queen's illness cured and the people of the kingdom all free of sickness, no one bore any thought of harming the peacock. The peacock, knowing all of this, said to the king: 'I have received the king's own life-giving grace, and I have repaid it by relieving the lives of this whole kingdom.' Having repaid his debt, he asked leave to depart, and the king said, 'You may go.' The peacock then took flight and rose into a tree, and said again: 'There are three fools in this world.' The king asked, 'What are the three?' 'The first is my own folly; the second is the hunter's folly; the third is the great king's folly.' The king said, 'Please explain.' The peacock said: 'The buddhas' weighty precepts teach that lust for beauty is fire itself, the very cause of a body burned and a life endangered. I abandoned my own five hundred devoted wives out of greed for a blue sparrow, gathering food for her as though I were her servant, and so was caught in the hunter's net, nearly losing my life. This is my own folly. As for the hunter's folly: my words to him were utterly sincere, and yet he gave up an entire mountain of gold, cast aside inexhaustible treasure, and instead believed the queen's false and deceitful promise, hoping only for her youngest daughter as his wife — the world's foolish and reckless people are all of this same kind. To abandon the Buddha's own sincere precepts and believe instead the deceptions of ghosts and demons, indulging in wine, music, and lechery, sometimes bringing ruin upon one's whole household, sometimes dying and falling into the hell of Mount Tai with immeasurable suffering, and then wishing to be reborn human again — this is like a wingless bird wishing to fly up to heaven. Is this not difficult indeed? The seductive charm of a wicked woman is like a hidden trap — the ruin of kingdoms and the endangering of lives so often come from just this, and yet foolish men still honor and desire it; ten thousand of her words hold not a single truth, and yet the hunter believed them. This is why I call the hunter a fool. As for the king: having obtained a heavenly physician who cured the sickness of an entire kingdom, dispelling every poison, restoring faces to full bloom, bringing joy to young and old alike — and yet the king lets him go free. This is why I call the king a fool.'" The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "From that time on, the peacock king traveled throughout the eight directions, always using his divine medicine and compassionate heart to give freely and heal the sicknesses of living beings. The peacock king was I myself. The king was Śāriputra. The hunter was Devadatta. The queen was Devadatta's wife." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago there was a brahmin, a hundred and twenty years old, who held to chastity and never married, cutting off entirely all lustful desire, dwelling quietly among the mountains and marshes, taking no delight in worldly glory, building his hut of thatch and his mat of coarse weeds, sustaining his life on spring water and mountain fruit, his resolve vast and his conduct lofty, praised throughout the world for his virtue. A king wished to make him his minister, but, devoted to the Way, he would not take office, and had dwelt in the mountains and marshes for several decades, his benevolence reaching even to the birds and beasts, who came to rely on him. At that time there were four animals — a fox, an otter, a monkey, and a rabbit — and these four animals said to one another: "Let us support this ascetic, and quietly listen to his teaching." For years this continued, until at last the mountain's fruit was entirely exhausted, and the ascetic wished to move on in search of a place where fruit was plentiful. The four animals, distressed, said: "Though there be a man of worldly glory and honor in some kingdom, he is like muddy water filling the sea — not worth even a single measure of sweet dew. If the ascetic leaves, we will no longer hear the sacred teachings — how impoverished we will be! Let each of us seek out food according to our own ability, to support the ascetic, and beg him to remain on this mountain, that we may go on hearing the great Dharma." They all agreed together, "Yes, let us do this." "The monkey gathered fruit; the fox transformed himself into a man and obtained a bag of dried meat; the otter caught a great fish; each said, 'This can supply a month's provisions.' The rabbit thought deeply to himself: 'What can I offer to support the ascetic?' and said: 'All that lives must die; this body is but a fragile vessel, destined to be cast aside in the end. To feed ten thousand ordinary men is not worth feeding a single ascetic.' He went at once and gathered firewood and made it into charcoal, and said to the ascetic: 'Though my body is small, it can supply one day's provisions.' Having said this, he threw himself into the fire at once — but the fire would not burn him. The ascetic, witnessing this, was deeply moved by such devotion; the buddhas praised his virtue, and the heavenly spirits nurtured him with compassion. The ascetic then remained, and each day expounded the wondrous teaching, and the four animals received his instruction." The Buddha said to the monks: "The ascetic was the Buddha Dīpaṃkara. The rabbit was I myself. The monkey was Śāriputra. The fox was Ānanda. The otter was Maudgalyāyana." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great householder, whose accumulated wealth rivaled that of the whole country, and who always delighted in relieving the poor, his kindness reaching every living being, receiving all who came to him just as the sea receives every river that flows into it. At that time, a friend's son, through dissolute and reckless conduct, had exhausted his entire family fortune. The householder, taking pity on him, taught him, saying: "Make your living through honest means, and its benefit will be inexhaustible," and gave him a thousand taels of gold as capital. The young man answered, "I will honor this respectfully, and dare not disobey your clear instruction," and set out at once to trade. But by nature he was corrupt and self-indulgent, fond of ghosts and demons and their strange rites, given over to lechery, wine, and pleasure, and once again his wealth was entirely exhausted, and he returned to poverty just as before. In this way he squandered his entire fortune five times over, and each time he returned to the householder in his poverty. One day, outside the householder's gate, there lay a dead rat upon a dungheap; the householder pointed it out to him and said: "A truly clever and capable man could make his fortune even from that dead rat there. And yet you, given a thousand taels of gold, remain in poverty? Here — I will give you another thousand taels." "At that moment, there was a beggar child nearby who overheard this teaching and was deeply moved; he came forward as if to beg for food, but instead picked up the dead rat and took it away. Following the wisdom of what he had overheard, he begged for various seasonings, roasted the rat and prepared it, and sold it for two coins; with this he began selling vegetables, and in time accumulated over a hundred coins. From this small beginning he grew steadily, until at last he became a wealthy man. Living at ease one day, he reflected: 'I was once a beggar child — how did I come to this wealth?' And he realized: 'It was through the wise householder's teaching of that foolish, careless young man that I gained this fortune. To receive such a kindness and not repay it would be to turn my back on this insight.' He had a silver tray made, and upon it a golden rat, its belly filled with every kind of famous treasure, set out upon the tray, and further adorned all around with strings of precious gems, and, together with every kind of delicacy, went to pay his respects to the householder, explaining the whole reason: 'I have come today to repay the grace of heaven's own blessing upon me.' The householder said: 'How admirable you are, a true man among men! You may well receive further instruction.' He gave him his own daughter in marriage at once, and entrusted all his household affairs and dwellings to him, saying: 'As my heir, you must honor the Buddha and the Three Jewels, and use the four immeasurable minds to relieve and save living beings.' He answered, 'I will certainly practice the Buddha's teaching.' He later became the householder's heir, and the whole country praised his filial devotion." The Buddha said to the monks: "The householder was I myself. The dissolute young man was Devadatta. The one who grew wealthy through the rat was the monk Panthaka. Devadatta, though he holds within him six hundred million verses of my teaching, speaks in accordance with it while acting against it, and at death will fall into the hell of Mount Tai. The monk Panthaka, though he holds only a single line of my teaching, has thereby crossed beyond this world entirely. To have words without corresponding action is like using oil to light one's own destruction — this is the wisdom of the petty man. But when word and deed support one another, bright as the sun and moon, embracing living beings and relieving all things — this is the wisdom of the great man. Right conduct is the very ground from which the ten thousand things are born." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago there was a solitary mother who worked as a hired hand for a householder, watching over his fields and gardens. Her master, distracted by some matter, brought her meal to her late, past the proper hour. Just as she was about to eat, a renunciant came to beg. She thought of him with her whole heart, her desires cut off, her wickedness set aside, her conduct pure and true. She thought: 'To relieve every hungry person within the four seas is not equal to a small gift given to a truly worthy and pure-precepted one.' She placed her entire portion of food into his bowl, and set a single lotus flower atop it as an offering. The renunciant then showed his spiritual powers, radiating light, and the woman, delighted, exclaimed: 'This is truly what is meant by a sage and a divine being! I vow that in a future life I may have a hundred sons just like him.' When the mother's life ended and her spirit passed on, she was to become the heir of a certain brahmin. Her spirit gathered at the place where the brahmin relieved himself, and a doe, drinking of it, was thereby made pregnant. When her time was full, she gave birth to a girl, and the brahmin raised her as his own. By the age of ten and more, she had a radiant bearing and graceful step, and she watched over the household's fire. One day, playing with a deer, she let the fire go out without noticing. Her father, returning, grew angry with her, and sent her out to fetch fire. Wherever the girl walked among the crowds, a lotus flower sprang up at each step she took. The keeper of the fire she sought said: 'Circle my dwelling three times, and I will give you fire.' The girl obeyed, and lotus flowers sprang up on the bare ground, encircling the house three times over; those who saw this, walking or standing still, could not help marveling at it. "Word of this soon reached the ears of the country's king, who commanded a physiognomist to examine her and determine her fortune. The master said: 'She will surely bear a sacred heir, whose line will continue without end.' The king sent a worthy minister to formally receive her as his bride, with full ceremony; her beauty and radiance shone brightly, unmatched by any of the palace women. When her time came to give birth, she bore a hundred eggs instead. The other queens and consorts, every one of them, grew jealous of her. They secretly carved a demon-like figure out of a banana-plant trunk, and at the time of her delivery, covered its face with hair and smeared it with the fluids of childbirth, and showed it to the king. The many wicked women thus obscured the truth, and the king, deceived, believed them. The wicked conspirators sealed the hundred eggs inside a jar, covered its mouth in secret, and cast it into the river to drift away. "Śakra, lord of the gods, came down and sealed the mouth of the jar with his own seal; the gods of heaven escorted and guarded it, and, following the current, it came to rest as though rooted to the spot, like a pillar planted in the earth. In the kingdom downstream, that country's own king, from his tower, saw from a distance a jar floating in the water, its brilliant radiance as though it held some divine spirit within, and had it retrieved and examined. Seeing Śakra's own seal upon it, he opened it and found a hundred eggs within, and had a hundred women each nurture and warm one. When their time was full, their bodies were formed, and a hundred boys were born. From birth they possessed the wisdom of the highest sages, understanding without being taught, their bearing surpassing that of the age, their marks of excellence rare in the world, their strength and capability a hundred times that of ordinary men, their voices, when they spoke, like the roar of a lion. The king at once provided a hundred white elephants, saddled and bridled with the seven treasures, to equip these sacred heirs, and sent them to conquer the neighboring states; the four neighboring kingdoms submitted, all proclaiming themselves vassals. "They then attacked the very kingdom of their birth, and the people of that country, high and low, all trembled in fear. The king said: 'Who can withstand this enemy?' His queen said: 'Great King, have no fear. Watch from where the enemy approaches, and see by what means they attack the city; go up to observe them, and I will subdue them for you.' The king then went to watch from where the enemy would come, and set up an observation platform. The mother climbed the tower and called out in a loud voice: 'There are three great forms of rebellion in this world. To follow a crowd of the wicked without hesitation and thereby bring calamity upon two generations — this is the first. To be born and not recognize one's own parent, and thereby commit an act against filial devotion — this is the second. To rely on one's own power to kill one's own parent, and turn poison against the Three Jewels — this is the third. To hold all three of these forms of rebellion at once is a wickedness beyond measure. Open your mouths now, and you will see the proof of what I say.' Their mother then grasped her own breasts, and heaven caused her milk to spray out and reach the mouths of all hundred sons at once. Moved by this display of utter sincerity, and by the deep feeling stirred in them by drinking her milk, they all said together: 'This is truly our own mother!' Weeping, they embraced one another's necks, and, hands joined, came forward step by step, bowing their heads and confessing their fault. Now that mother and children were reunited for the first time, there was no one who did not weep for joy. The two kingdoms became reconciled, their affection surpassing even that between brothers; the people of both lands rejoiced, and there was no one, near or far, who did not praise this as good. "The sons, seeing the impermanence of the world, like an illusion, took leave of their parents to study the Way, distancing themselves from the world's defilements. Ninety-nine of the sons all attained the awakening of pratyekabuddhas. The one remaining son governed the kingdom; when his father the king passed away, he became king in his place. He granted a great amnesty for every crime, tore down the prisons, filled in the moats, freed all slaves and servants, comforted the filial and the fraternal, cared for orphans and widowers, opened the treasury for great acts of giving, granting the people's every wish. He made the ten virtues the law of the land, and every person recited them, and every household had its filial children. He built stūpas and temples, made offerings to the monks, recited the sūtras and discussed the Way, his mouth free of the four evils of speech; every poison was exhausted, and lifespans grew ever longer. Śakra, lord of the gods, protected and nurtured this kingdom as though it were his own child." The Buddha said to the monks: "The King Liu who ruled that kingdom was I myself. The father-king is now King Śuddhodana. The mother is Māyā." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was, at that time, an ascetic, learned and accomplished in the scriptures, and the people of the country made him their teacher. He had five hundred disciples, all of them men of Confucian virtue, whose nature delighted in giving, though they still guarded their own persons carefully. At that time there was a buddha in the world, called the Tathāgata Dīpaṃkara, the one attached to nothing, the truly and rightly honored, the most perfectly enlightened, who guided the three realms back to their original, formless nature. The bodhisattva, seeing this buddha, took refuge in him with great joy, and invited the Buddha and his community of monks to remain in his household for seven days, that he might honor and provide for them. Among the ascetic's disciples, each vied for a particular task to attend to. One disciple, still young, whom the teacher had sent on an errand, returned and asked to be given some task to perform. The teacher said: 'There is one task with no one yet assigned to it — you may take charge of it.' The young disciple answered: 'The only such task is that of the lamp, which has no one tending it.' The teacher said, 'Very good.' The disciple filled a vessel with sesame oil, bathed himself thoroughly, wrapped his head in white cloth, and lit it with his own hand, his own head becoming the lamp's wick. "Gods, humans, dragons, and spirits, witnessing his fierce resolve, could not help clapping their hands in astonishment, exclaiming: 'Never has the world seen such a thing — this one is surely destined to become a buddha!' The Buddha praised him for this, and caused the light to burn through the whole night without his head being harmed at all, his mind settled entirely in the teaching, free of any distracting thought, and for all seven days he continued in this way, showing not the slightest weariness. The Buddha then bestowed on him this prediction: 'After countless kalpas you shall become a buddha, named Dīpaṃkara, "the Lamp-Bearer." Light will shine from your neck and shoulders, and through your teaching you will lift up and deliver living beings beyond all measure.' Gods, humans, spirits, and dragons, hearing that he would become a buddha, all rejoiced and bowed their heads in congratulation. "The ascetic teacher thought to himself: 'If he can attain buddhahood, then surely I too can attain it — I ought to also receive such a prediction.' But the Buddha had already departed. He came before him, bowed his head, and said: 'I have made this humble offering with my whole sincere heart — I beg that you grant me too a prediction.' The Buddha said to the ascetic: 'When this young disciple becomes a buddha, he shall grant you your prediction.' Hearing that he too would one day attain buddhahood, the ascetic, in his joy, forgot even that he had a body of his own, and from that time on, gave ever more greatly — feeding the hungry, clothing the cold, providing medicine for the sick, and, according to what each required, relieving even the smallest flying, crawling, and wriggling creatures with food at the proper time. The countries of all eight directions praised him as a benevolent father." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The young disciple was the Buddha Dīpaṃkara. The ascetic teacher was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great householder, whose accumulated wealth rivaled that of the whole country, who always honored the Three Jewels and held kindness toward all living beings. Passing through the market one day, he saw a turtle for sale, and his heart was moved with sorrow for it; he asked its price. The turtle's owner, knowing the bodhisattva's reputation for universal compassion, delighting in relieving the multitude, and his wealth beyond counting, would not haggle over the price, and answered: 'A million coins — if you can pay that, very well; if not, I will boil it.' The bodhisattva answered: 'Very good!' and paid the exact price at once, took the turtle home, tended its wounds, and released it by the water. Watching it swim away, moved by both sorrow and joy, he made this vow: 'May the hungry ghosts of Mount Tai, and every living being bound in the world's own prisons, soon be freed from their hardship, and find their bodies at peace and their lives whole, just as this turtle now does.' He bowed his head to the ten directions, joined his hands, and vowed: 'Living beings are in such turmoil, their suffering beyond measure; I will be as heaven for them, as earth for them; in drought I will be moisture for them, in flood I will be a raft for them; food for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, clothing for the cold, coolness for the heated, a physician for the sick, a light in the darkness; and if ever there comes an age of chaos and confusion in this defiled world, I will become a buddha within it and deliver these living beings.' The buddhas of the ten directions all approved this vow, and praised him, saying: 'Excellent! You shall surely attain your resolve.' "Later, in the night, the turtle came and gnawed at his gate; startled by the sound at his door, he sent someone out to look, and it was the turtle, come to repeat exactly what had happened before. The bodhisattva looked at it, and the turtle spoke to him in human speech: 'I have received your profound grace, and my body has been made whole — I have nothing to offer in return. As a creature that dwells in the water, I know when the waters will rise or fall, and a great flood is coming that will surely cause immense harm. I beg you to prepare a boat swiftly, and when the time comes, I will come to guide you.' He answered, 'Very good.' The next morning he went to the palace gate and reported this to the king exactly as it had happened. The king, because the bodhisattva had long held a reputation for goodness, trusted his words, and had the people move from low ground to higher ground. When the time came, the turtle arrived and said: 'The flood has come — you must board your boat at once and follow me, and you will surely be spared any harm.' The boat followed after the turtle. A snake, caught in the flood, made for the boat, and the bodhisattva said, 'Take it aboard.' The turtle said, 'Very good.' Next he saw a fox being swept along, and said, 'Take it aboard,' and the turtle again said, 'Good.' Then he saw a drowning man, beating his own cheeks and crying out to heaven, begging to have his life saved, and said, 'Take him aboard.' The turtle said: 'Take care not to take him — men's hearts are deceitful by nature, and few of them remain faithful to the end; they betray kindness in pursuit of their own advantage, and are inclined toward wicked, rebellious deeds.' The bodhisattva said: 'A mere creature you were willing to save, and yet you would despise a fellow human being — how could that be right? I cannot bear to leave him.' And so he took the man aboard as well. The turtle said, 'You will regret this,' and they went on to a place of high, fertile ground. The turtle then took his leave, saying: 'My debt is repaid — I ask now to depart.' He answered: 'When I attain the state of Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the truly and rightly awakened, I will surely deliver you as well.' The turtle said, 'Very good,' and departed; the snake and the fox likewise went their own ways. "The fox, making its den, found an ancient hoard of pure refined gold, a hundred catties of it, and said with delight: 'I must use this to repay that kindness.' It hurried back and said: 'This lowly creature received your grace, and its small life was saved. As a creature that dwells in a den, I sought out a den to make my home in, and there I found a hundred catties of gold — this den is no ancient grave, no household treasury, no stolen hoard, no plunder from theft. It is the result of my own sincere devotion, and I wish to offer it to you, worthy one.' The bodhisattva reflected deeply: 'To refuse it would be to waste it uselessly, of no benefit to the poor; to accept it and use it for giving would relieve living beings — would this not be good?' And so he accepted it at once. The man who had nearly drowned, seeing this, said: 'Give me half of it.' The bodhisattva gave him ten catties of it. The drowning man said: 'You dug up a grave and stole this gold — what crime and punishment do you think this deserves? If you do not give me half, I will surely report you to the authorities.' He answered: 'The poor and needy people are in hardship, and I wish to give to them equally — would it not be unfair for you alone to claim this for yourself?' The drowning man then reported him to the authorities, and the bodhisattva was seized, with no one to appeal to; he could only take refuge in the Three Jewels, repent and reproach himself, and make this compassionate vow: 'May all living beings soon be free of the eight difficulties, and may none of them ever be bound by such a grievance as mine is now.' "The snake and the fox, meeting together, said: 'What can be done about this?' The snake said, 'I will go and save him.' It took a fine medicine in its mouth, and, opening the prison gate, entered the cell. Seeing the bodhisattva's condition, his complexion diminished by suffering, it was moved with sorrow, and said to the bodhisattva: 'Keep this medicine with you. I am going now to bite the crown prince — his poison will be especially severe, and no one will be able to cure him. Worthy one, when you hear of this, apply the medicine, and he will be cured at once.' The bodhisattva said nothing. The snake did exactly as it had said, and the crown prince's life hung by a thread; the king proclaimed: 'Whoever can save him will be made chief minister, and will share in the governance of this kingdom.' The bodhisattva, hearing of this, came forward and applied the medicine, and the prince was healed at once. The king, delighted, asked how this had come about, and the prisoner told his whole story from beginning to end. The king, grieved, reproached himself: 'How very blind I have been!' He at once had the drowning man executed, granted a great amnesty throughout the kingdom, made the bodhisattva chief minister, took him by the hand into the palace, and, sitting together with him, said: 'Worthy one, what teachings do you expound, what path do you hold to, that you embody such benevolence toward heaven and earth, your grace reaching every living being?' He answered: 'I expound the Buddha's scriptures, and hold to the Buddha's path.' The king said: 'Does the Buddha have some essential teaching?' He said: 'He does. The Buddha teaches the four truths of impermanence — one who holds to them sees every calamity vanish, and bright blessing flourish.' The king said: 'Excellent! I wish to hear its substance.' He said: 'When heaven and earth themselves come to their final end, seven suns will appear together and dry up the whole ocean; heaven and earth will blaze with fire, Mount Sumeru itself will collapse, and gods, humans, dragons, and every living being's body and life will be consumed in an instant. What flourished before withers now — this is what is meant by impermanence. The wise hold fast to the awareness of impermanence, saying: if heaven and earth themselves are like this, how could office, rank, or kingdom ever last long? Whoever grasps this awareness thereby holds the resolve of universal compassion.' The king said: 'If even heaven and earth are like this, how much more so a mere kingdom? What the Buddha teaches of impermanence — my heart truly believes it.' "The householder said further: 'There is a suffering more bitter than any other, and the king should know of it.' The king said, 'I wish to hear this clear teaching.' He said: 'The consciousness of living beings is subtle and mysterious, difficult to know; looked at, it has no form; listened for, it makes no sound; vast as it is across all the world, high as it is beyond any covering, boundless as an ocean with no visible shore, turning in a cycle with no end. And yet it hungers and thirsts after the six desires, as the ocean is never satisfied by all the rivers that flow into it, and so, again and again, it passes through the burning and boiling torments of Mount Tai and every manner of suffering; sometimes it becomes a hungry ghost, molten copper poured down its throat, forced to labor in Mount Tai; sometimes it becomes an animal, butchered and flayed, dying again and again beneath the blade, its pain beyond measure. If it manages to become human, it dwells ten months in the womb, and at the moment of birth is crushed and squeezed as though strangled by a cord; the pain of falling to the ground is like falling from a great height, buffeted by wind as though burned by fire, bathed in water so hot it is like being doused in molten copper, touched by hands and cloth as though flayed by a blade — such pains as these are bitter beyond telling. When one has grown older, the faculties all ripen and decline, the hair turns white and the teeth fall out, the body wastes away within and without, and to dwell in this state is a sorrow in itself, turning gradually into grave illness; as the four elements of the body seek to separate, every joint aches, and one can neither sit nor lie down without help, and even the physician's visit only adds to one's distress. As life is about to end, every wind-element in the body rises up at once, severing the sinews and shattering the bones, and every opening of the body becomes blocked; the breath ceases and the spirit departs, following the path determined by one's own past deeds. Even if one rises to heaven, heaven too has its poor and its rich, its noble and its base, and a lifespan that, however long, will eventually be used up; when one's blessings are exhausted and one's transgressions come due, one falls again into Mount Tai, into the realm of hungry ghosts, or into the animal realm — this is what is called suffering.' The king said: 'Excellent! What the Buddha teaches of suffering — my heart truly believes it.' "The householder said further: 'All that exists must, in the end, be empty — like two pieces of wood rubbed together to make fire, the fire then burning up the very wood that made it, until fire and wood are both entirely gone; both are, in the end, empty. The palaces, ministers, and people of kings long past are now all worn away, and no one knows where they have gone — this too is emptiness.' The king said: 'Excellent! What the Buddha teaches of emptiness — my heart truly believes it.' "The householder said further: 'The body is composed of earth, water, fire, and wind. What is solid is earth; what is soft is water; what is warm is fire; what breathes is wind. When life ends and the spirit departs, these four elements each go their separate ways, and nothing can keep them whole together — this is why it is said there is no fixed self.' The king said: 'Excellent! What the Buddha teaches of no-self — my heart truly believes it. If even this body cannot be kept forever, how much less a kingdom? How painful it is that my late royal father never heard this teaching of the unsurpassed, true and right, most perfect awakening — of impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and no-self!' "The householder said: 'Heaven and earth themselves are impermanent — who, then, could ever truly keep a kingdom? Why not empty your treasuries, and give to the poor and hungry?' The king said: 'Excellent! How fine is the wise teacher's instruction!' He at once emptied every treasury and gave freely to the poor and needy, treating widowers, widows, and orphans as his own family and children; the people, moved by his radiant example, poor and rich made equal, the whole country rejoicing, walked about smiling, and, looking up to heaven, exclaimed: 'Has the bodhisattva's divine transformation truly reached even this far?' The four directions praised his virtue, and at last great peace was achieved." The Buddha said to the monks: "The householder was I myself. The king was Maitreya. The turtle was Ānanda. The fox was Śāriputra. The snake was Maudgalyāyana. The drowning man was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.

Long ago the bodhisattva practiced as a monk, always dwelling in mountain forests, his heart full of compassion and sorrow, grieving that living beings suffer so long, turning endlessly through the three realms — how might he relieve them? Stilling his mind, he reflected deeply, seeking the vast source of the Way, resolved to save the multitude. But there was a louse in his robe, and his body itched and his mind was disturbed, and his resolve for the Way could not settle; reaching in with his hand, he found the louse. His heart was moved with sorrow, and he sought a way to give it comfort. Nearby there happened to be an animal's bone, and he gently placed the louse inside it. The louse fed on it for seven days, and when it was gone, the louse departed. Turning through birth and death again and again, the bodhisattva at last attained buddhahood, and taught and transformed beings across the land." At that time, heavy snow blocked all the roads, and a householder of the country invited the Buddha and several thousand monks to receive offerings for seven days. His heart was solemn and reverent, and his whole household joined him in this devotion, but the snow had not yet melted. The Buddha said to Ānanda: "Instruct the monks to return to the monastery." Ānanda said: "The host is reverent and solemn, his heart has not wavered, and though the snow is heavy and has not yet stopped, there is nowhere else for us to go begging." The World-Honored One said: "The host's intention has already run its course — he will not go on providing for us." The Buddha then set out, and the monks followed him back to the monastery. The next day, the World-Honored One said to Ānanda: "Go and beg alms from that same host." Ānanda, following this instruction, went and arrived at the host's gate. The gatekeeper, seeing him, asked him nothing of his purpose. After a while, Ānanda returned, bowed his head, knelt, and reported exactly what had happened. He then questioned the Buddha about this: "How could that man's intention change so quickly?" The Buddha then explained the whole matter as told above, and said further: "Ānanda, I once, out of a compassionate heart, saved the small life of a louse, giving it an old bone to feed on for seven days; and now, having received offerings for the rest of my life in this world, this is because that former gift of kindness lasted exactly seven days — and so this man's own intention, too, comes to its natural end after this same span, and does not continue as it did before. How much more true this is of a compassionate heart directed toward the Buddha and the community of monks. To honor with reverence a single monk of pure precepts, free of desire and lofty in conduct, sincere within and expressing that sincerity outwardly through compassionate transformation, surpasses giving to ordinary people over countless kalpas, however heartfelt. And why is this so? Because a monk holds within him the Buddha's own teaching, possessing precepts, concentration, wisdom, liberation, and the wisdom and vision of liberation — with these five virtues he guides living beings with compassion, leading them far from the ten thousand calamities of the three realms." Ānanda said: "How fortunate that householder was, to receive in person the compassionate nurture of the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men, together with the monks — among whom are those who have attained the fruits of stream-entry, once-returning, non-returning, and arhatship, and bodhisattvas who establish great and vast compassion to guide living beings! Such blessing is beyond measure, vast as the ocean; beyond description, boundless as the earth itself." The Buddha said: "Well said, Ānanda! It is exactly as you say. A buddha is difficult to encounter, the Dharma is difficult to hear, and to make offerings to the community of monks is difficult to attain — like the udumbara flower, which blooms only once in a great while." Having spoken this teaching, the monks rejoiced, bowed their heads, and carried it out. This is how the bodhisattva, practicing the boundless perfection of compassionate giving, gave.