Fascicle 5

Long ago the bodhisattva, seeing the world's corruption and defilement, its rulers and ministers without the Way, turning their backs on truth to follow wickedness, and being difficult to guide and transform, hid his own brilliance and concealed his own light, dwelling among the graves, and practiced there the conduct of patience. Among the graves there was a calf, whose dung and urine he took regularly for food and drink, sustaining his life exposed to the elements, deep in concentrated thought, his complexion ugly and dark, so that everyone despised him. The people of the country, seeing him, told one another: "There is a demon in this place." Whoever saw him spat and cursed at him, and threw earth and stones at him. The bodhisattva bore not a hair's breadth of resentment, and, with a compassionate heart, grieved for them: "How pitiable these people are, that they have not seen the Buddha's scriptures and so commit such evil." He made this vow: "When I become the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right awakened one, I will surely deliver them." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the bodhisattva was named Shan, always holding vast compassion, his grace reaching every living being, grieving with pity for the ignorant multitude who had never seen the Three Jewels. He dwelt with his two parents among the mountains and marshes; his father and mother, in their old age, had both lost their sight, and Shan, moved by sorrow for them, spoke of it with tears. Every night he rose three times to check whether they were too cold or too warm, and his utmost filial conduct spread its fragrance far and wide, known to the spirits of the earth, the dragons of the sea, and the people of the land. He honored the Buddha's ten virtues, never killing any living being; he never picked up what others had dropped on the road; he held to chastity and never married; every calamity of conduct was stilled within him; divisive speech, harsh cursing, false speech, idle chatter, slander, and deceit — all faults of the mouth were entirely cut off in him; envy, anger, and gluttonous greed — every defilement of the heart was entirely quieted within him. He believed goodness brings blessing and evil brings disaster. He built his hut of thatch and his mat of coarse weeds, pure and free of desire, his resolve like heavenly gold. In the mountains there was a flowing spring, in which lotus flowers grew, and sweet fruit grew all around its edges; rising early to gather fruit, he never once tasted the sweetest for himself first, and his kindness shone so far that birds and beasts came to rely on him. "His two parents grew thirsty, and Shan went to draw water. The king of the country of Kāśi had entered the mountains to hunt, and, drawing his bow, shot an arrow meant for a deer, but struck Shan's chest by mistake; the poison of the arrow spread through him, and his pain was beyond words. Looking about him, he wept and cried out loudly: 'Who has killed three ascetics with a single arrow? My parents are old, and both have lost their sight; the moment I am gone, they too will surely perish.' Raising his voice in grief, he said: 'The elephant has its tusks, the rhinoceros its horn, the kingfisher its feathers — but I have no tusk, no horn, no bright feather; by what right, then, must I die?' The king, hearing his mournful cry, dismounted and asked: 'Do you dwell deep in these mountains?' He answered: 'I have brought my two parents to dwell in these mountains, apart from the world's defilements, to study and advance my resolve for the Way.' "Hearing Shan's words, the king, choking with emotion, wept, deeply grieved, and said: 'I have been without benevolence, destroying the life of an innocent creature, and now I have killed one of the most filial of sons.' He raised his voice in mourning, saying, 'What is to be done about this?' and there was no one among his ministers, high or low, who was not moved to tears. The king said further: 'I would give up my entire kingdom to save your life — I beg you, show me where your parents are, that I may confess my fault to them myself.' He answered: 'Simply follow that small path; not far from here is a small thatched hut, and my parents are within. Announce to them, on my behalf, that from this moment we are parted forever, and I hope they may live out what years remain to them; take care that they do not grieve too deeply for me.' His voice rose again in mourning, and then, suddenly, his breath failed. The king and his soldiers, overcome once more with grief, followed the path he had shown and came to where his parents were. As the king approached with his many attendants, the grass and trees rustled with the sound of their passing, and the two parents, hearing this, wondered who it might be, and asked: 'Who travels here?' The king said, 'I am the king of Kāśi.' The parents said: 'How good that the king has come flying to us — here is a mat of grass where you may rest from the heat, and sweet fruit to eat; our son has gone to draw water, and should return soon.' The king, seeing how tenderly they awaited their son, was again overcome with emotion. The king said to the parents: 'I saw how these two ascetics awaited their son with such love, and my heart was already deeply grieved for it. Your son Shan — I have shot and killed him.' The parents, shocked and stricken, said: 'What crime had our son committed, that he should be killed? Our son's conduct was so benevolent and compassionate that he always feared even the earth itself might feel pain beneath his steps — what crime could he possibly have had, that the king should kill him?' The king said: 'It was precisely because he was such a supremely filial son, truly the finest of the worthy, that I shot him — I was aiming at a deer, and struck him by mistake!' They said: 'Now that our son is dead, what is there left for us to rely on? We too shall now die. We beg only that the great king lead the two of us, old as we are, to where our son's body lies — we are certain to perish there as well, and would rather become dust and ashes together with him.' Hearing the parents' words, the king, once again overcome with grief, led them himself to where the body lay. The father placed his son's head upon his own knee, and the mother embraced his feet, pressing her mouth to them and sucking at them; each placed a hand upon the arrow wound, and, beating their chests and striking their own cheeks, they raised their heads to heaven and cried out: 'Spirits of heaven and earth, spirits of the trees and waters — our son Shan honored the Buddha, believed in the Dharma, revered the worthy, and was filial to his parents, holding within him a boundless and vast benevolence that reached even to the grass and trees.' They said further: 'If our son's utmost filial sincerity, in honoring the Buddha, has truly reached the ears of heaven, then let the arrow be drawn out, let its heavy poison be dissolved, and let our son live again, to complete his utmost filial conduct; but if this is not so, then our words are without truth, and we too shall perish here, and become dust together with him.' Śakra, lord of the gods, the Four Heavenly Kings, the spirits of the earth, and the dragons of the sea, hearing the parents' mournful cry, and believing their words to be true, were all deeply moved. "Śakra himself then descended, and said to the parents: 'This most filial of sons — I am able to bring him back to life.' He poured a heavenly, divine medicine into Shan's mouth, and at once, suddenly, he revived. Father, mother, and Shan himself, together with the king and his ministers who had followed, were overcome with mingled sorrow and joy, and all together raised their voices once more, this time in celebration. The king said: 'Honoring the Buddha and utmost filial virtue can reach even this far.' He then commanded his ministers: 'From this day forward, let every person throughout this land honor the Buddha's ten virtuous goods, and cultivate Shan's own utmost filial conduct.' The entire kingdom followed this, and from then on the country prospered and the people lived in health, and at last great peace was achieved." The Buddha said to the monks: "Life after life I have honored the buddhas' own utmost filial conduct, and through this my virtue rose high and my blessings grew abundant, until at last I became the heaven of heavens, walking alone through the three realms. At that time, Shan was I myself. The king was Ānanda. Shan's father is now my own father. The mother is my own mother, Māyā. Śakra, lord of the gods, was Maitreya." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the bodhisattva was, at that time, an ascetic named Kṣāntivādin, dwelling among the mountains and marshes, seated beneath a tree in deep concentration, sustaining himself on fruit and spring water. His inner defilements entirely exhausted, dwelling in emptiness and stillness, his vast clarity had attained the six supernatural powers in full. The fragrance of his wisdom and renown spread throughout the eight directions, above and below, and the buddhas, pratyekabuddhas, and arhats of the ten directions all sighed in admiration of him. Śakra, Brahmā, and the Four Heavenly Kings, the dragons of the sea and the spirits of the earth, morning and evening, reverently joined their hands and bowed their heads to him, receiving his transformation and carrying its influence to protect his country; wind and rain came in their proper season, the five grains ripened in abundance, poison and calamity were dissolved, and ruler and ministers alike flourished. The king of that country, named Kali, entered the mountains to hunt, chasing after deer, and, following their tracks, passed before the bodhisattva. The king asked the ascetic: 'Have any animal tracks passed this way?' The bodhisattva thought silently to himself: 'Living beings, in their restless turmoil, care only for their own lives, fearing death and clinging to life — how is my own heart any different from theirs? If I tell the king, his cruel and unbenevolent killing becomes a crime I share with him; but if I say I did not see them, I will have lied.' Inwardly troubled, he lowered his head and said nothing. The king, growing angry, said: 'You wretch, deserving of death — I have shown myself before you as king, honored above an entire kingdom, and you do not answer my question, but instead pretend to lower your head?' In that country, it was the custom to raise the thumb to mean 'yes' and shake the hand to mean 'no' — the bodhisattva, deeply troubled, shook his hand to indicate to the king that he had not seen them. The king said: 'The tracks passed right through here, and yet you say you saw nothing — do you think that, with my own power, I could not have you executed?' The bodhisattva said: 'I am at the king's mercy.' The king said: 'Who are you, then?' He answered: 'I am a man of patience.' The king, in his fury, drew his sword and cut off his right arm. The bodhisattva thought to himself: 'My resolve is set on the highest Way, and I have no quarrel with the age I live in — and yet this king now raises his blade against me; how much more, then, might he do to the common people? I vow that when I attain buddhahood, I will deliver him first of all, that living beings may never again imitate such wickedness.' The king said: 'Who are you, then?' He answered again: 'I am a man of patience.' The king then cut off his left hand as well — with each question, another cut — cutting off his feet, his ears, his nose, until his blood flowed like a spring, his pain beyond all measure; heaven and earth shook, and the very sun grew dark. "The Four Great Heavenly Kings all arrived together, and said with one angry voice: 'This king's cruelty is beyond compare.' They said to the ascetic: 'Do not let your heart be defiled by this. We will put the king, his wife, and his children to death, and destroy his entire kingdom, to make his wickedness known to all.' The ascetic answered: 'What words are these? This calamity comes from my own past life, when I failed to honor the Buddha's teaching and inflicted harm upon others — evil pursues its doer as surely as a shadow follows a form. What I sowed then was little, and what I now reap is great; if I now consented to your wish, the calamity would be as vast as heaven and earth, and its guilt would be borne through kalpa after kalpa — how could it ever be brought to an end?' The common people, witnessing this transformation, rushed to confess their own faults, crying out together: 'The ascetic dwelt here, his radiant blessing nourishing our country, warding off calamity and dispelling plague — and yet this most foolish of rulers, unable to distinguish good from evil, unable to discern what should be embraced and what abandoned, has inflicted this evil upon the foremost of sages. We beg only that the sage not hold us, his people, responsible before the highest gods.' The bodhisattva answered: 'The king has inflicted this evil and suffering upon my body though I am innocent of any wrong, and my heart grieves for him, just as a compassionate mother grieves for her own infant child; what fault have you, the people, that I should hold any resentment toward you? If you have any doubt of this, take up my severed arm and see for yourselves.' The people took it up, and milk flowed forth from it. He said: 'The truth of my compassionate, mother-like grief is now shown before you.' The people, witnessing this vast display of good faith, all received his transformation, and withdrew rejoicing. "The bodhisattva had a younger brother, who had likewise attained the fundamental principle of the Way, dwelling on a different mountain; with his heavenly eye he perceived clearly, and saw the heavenly spirits, gods, and dragons gathered together, discussing the king's wickedness, every one of them filled with indignation. Fearing that his elder brother's own virtue might be diminished by this, he came to him by his spiritual power. He asked: 'Have you been harmed in any way?' He answered: 'No. If you wish to test my sincerity, take my severed hands, feet, ears, and nose and place them back where they belong — if they are restored, that will be the proof of my sincerity.' His younger brother restored them at once, and they were made whole again. The elder brother said: 'The truth of my vast compassion is now manifest for all to see.' The heavenly spirits and earth deities were all moved, grieving and rejoicing together, and bowed their heads in praise, encouraging one another further, advancing their own resolve toward lofty conduct, and receiving the precepts before withdrawing. From that time on, the sun and moon lost their light, the five planets fell out of their proper courses, strange omens followed one after another, drought struck and grain grew scarce, and the people, in their hardship, resented their king." The Buddha said to the monks: "Kṣāntivādin at that time was I myself. The younger brother was Maitreya. The king was the arhat Kauṇḍinya." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born into a poor family; the poor family could not raise him, and, wrapping him in a soiled cloth, at a time when no one was about, left him quietly at a crossroads, together with a thousand coins placed beside him. It was the custom of that country to hold this particular day as an auspicious one, and the whole realm gathered in celebration, people of every rank preparing feasts and taking their pleasure according to their kind. A brahmin, watching the festivities, said in praise to those gathered: 'How fortunate are those who celebrate this day! There is, apart from all this, rice as pure and white as can be, without any mixture, its fragrance rich and pleasing. Whoever bears a son or daughter on this very day will find that child noble and worthy.' Among those seated there was a householder who, having no heir of his own, heard this and silently rejoiced; he sent people out in every direction to search for an abandoned child, and had them ask passersby: 'Have you seen an abandoned child?' A passerby said, 'There is a widowed mother who has taken one in.' His messenger sought her out, found where she was, and said: 'I am of a wealthy family of the four castes, without an heir; if you offer this child to me, you shall receive every treasure in return.' The mother said: 'You may leave the money and take the child, and I will use it to buy what I need.' The mother received exactly what she wished. He raised the child for several months, but then his own wife became pregnant, and he thought: 'It was only because I had no heir that I raised a child not of my own blood — now that heaven has granted me my own line, what use is this child to me?' He wrapped the child in a soiled cloth and, in the night, left him in a low, wet place. A ewe belonging to the household came daily to nurse him with her milk, and the shepherd, investigating, discovered the child, and exclaimed: 'By what cause has the High God let his own child fall here?' He took the child home and raised him on the ewe's milk. The householder, learning of this, questioned him: 'Have you been secretly taking the ewe's milk?' He answered: 'I found a child abandoned by heaven, and have raised him on this milk.' The householder, filled with regret, took the child back and raised him for several more months, until at last his wife gave birth to a son of her own. His wicked intent arose once more, and again, as before, he wrapped the child in a soiled cloth and left him in the ruts of a cart road. But the child's own heart already held the Three Jewels within it, and he felt only compassion toward his parent. "At dawn, several hundred carts of merchants happened to pass along that very road, and the oxen suddenly balked and would not go forward; the merchants, investigating the cause, discovered the child, and exclaimed in astonishment: 'How has the son of the High God come to be in such a place?' They took him up into a cart, and the oxen then moved forward as smoothly as flowing water. After traveling twenty leagues, they stopped to rest the oxen at a roadside inn, where a widowed mother begged the merchants: 'Give me this child, that I may have some comfort in my own poor old age.' They gave him to her at once. But before she had raised him for long, the householder heard of this again, and, struck with grief, said: 'Have I, in my lack of benevolence, offended against heaven's own virtue?' Once more he offered treasures to reclaim the child, and, choking with self-reproach, raised both children equally together. Within a few years, seeing how remarkably brilliant and versatile this child's intelligence had become, his wicked intent arose yet again: 'This child's brilliance exceeds all proper measure — surely he is no true son of mine, and must be some kind of invading spirit.' He wrapped him in a soiled cloth and carried him into the mountains, abandoning him among the bamboo groves, cut off from all food, certain to perish. But the child, giving rise to a compassionate thought, said: 'When I attain buddhahood in a future life, I will surely relieve all such suffering as this.' Near the mountain there was a stream, and the child, straining with his own strength, shook himself loose from the bamboo and fell to the ground, tumbling gradually down to the water's edge. Twenty leagues from the water there lived a corpse-bearer, whose son had gone out to gather firewood; seeing the small child from a distance, he came closer, exclaiming, 'Has the High God let his own child fall here?' and carried him home to raise him. The householder, hearing of this once more, felt the same regret as before, and once again, with fine treasures and weeping in grief, reclaimed the child, and had him taught to read and write, to observe the heavens above and divine the earth below; whatever art or skill he encountered, he mastered it at a single glance, and his nature was benevolent and filial, his every word guiding others toward goodness; the people of the country praised him as a sage, and scholars gathered around him like clouds. But the father's own wicked intent arose again, his nature growing ever more deeply malicious. There was a former household with a blacksmith seven leagues from the city, and, wishing to plot the child's death, he wrote an instruction to the blacksmith: 'Since I took in this child, my household has suffered epidemic after epidemic, my wealth has been depleted, and my livestock have died. The great diviner has determined that this child is the cause of this calamity. Upon receipt of this letter, seize him at once, and throw him into the fire.' Deceiving the child, he said to him: 'My years are drawing to their close, and I am now gravely ill besides; go to the blacksmith and settle our accounts of money and treasure there — it will be your inheritance for the rest of your life.' The child, receiving this command, set out, and, within the city gate, saw his younger half-brother and his companions playing with walnuts. The younger brother said: 'How fortunate that my brother has come — play another round with me.' The elder brother said: 'I must go on our father's order.' The younger brother said, 'Then let me go in your place,' and, taking the letter, went to the blacksmith instead. The blacksmith, following the letter's instruction, threw the younger brother into the fire. The father, his heart uneasy and fearful, sent someone to inquire after the child, and the messenger, seeing the elder brother, asked: 'What happened to your younger brother?' The elder brother told him exactly what had occurred. Returning home, he reported this to his father, who sent a swift horse in pursuit — but the child was already reduced to ashes. "The father threw himself down and cried out to heaven, his breath catching in his chest, and this at last brought on a chronic illness of his own. Yet still his poisonous intent arose again: 'Now that I have no heir at all, what use is this child to me? I must surely kill him.' The father had a warehouse a thousand leagues from the capital, and he sent the child there, saying: 'That place has been squandering my wealth — go and settle the accounts. Here is a letter for the warehouse keeper, sealed in wax within a pouch — go there at once.' The letter secretly instructed: 'When this child arrives, bind a stone to his waist at once and sink him in the deepest part of the river.' The child, receiving this order, bowed his head and set out on horseback, and had traveled about halfway there. Along the road lived a brahmin, a distant relative of his father's own household, with whom letters and gifts had long been exchanged. This brahmin had a daughter, wise and clear-minded, deeply versed in matters of fortune and misfortune and the reading of the heavens. The child, arriving at the brahmin's dwelling, said: 'This is the household of a brahmin close to my father — I ought to pay my respects while I am here,' and said to his attendants, 'Shall we stop to observe proper courtesy?' They said, 'Good idea.' He went in and paid his respects. The brahmin, delighted, said: 'My brother's own son has come!' and summoned scholars and elders from the four neighboring households to gather in joyful celebration, and, consulting on various questions, all were delighted; by the end of the day and into the night, all grew tired and fell asleep. The daughter, secretly observing the young man, noticed the sealed letter in the pouch at his waist, and quietly untied it, took it, and, reading its contents, was struck with sorrow and said: 'What manner of wicked calamity is this, that would harm so benevolent a son?' She tore up the letter and rewrote it, so that it now read: 'My years are drawing to their close, and my illness grows graver by the day. That brahmin is a close friend of mine, and his daughter is both worthy and wise, a fitting match for my son since ancient times. Prepare the finest treasures and silks for the betrothal gifts, observing every proper courtesy, however small or great — on the very day the bride is taken, carry out this instruction exactly.' Having finished the letter, she opened the seal's clasp and restored it as before. "The next morning he set out again on his way, and the brahmin and his fellow scholars all sighed in admiration as he departed. The warehouse keeper, receiving the letter, followed its instructions and, with full ceremony, went to the brahmin's household. The brahmin and his wife discussed this together: 'The proper rite of marriage begins with an inquiry into conduct and an examination of the omens — if his propriety is complete, then we may consent. Now this young man arrives directly, without any prior matchmaking or courtship — could this be some kind of disrespect?' But, withdrawing to discuss it further, they said: 'The pairing of man and woman has been thus since ancient times; a worthy man and a chaste woman are indeed hard to find together.' And so they accepted the proposal and completed the marriage rites, and their whole extended family exclaimed: 'This glory will be passed down through the generations!' Once the marriage rites were complete, the warehouse keeper sent word swiftly to the father, who, upon hearing this, fell gravely and severely ill. The child, hearing of his father's illness, said with a choked voice: 'Life is hard to preserve — it is like an illusion, not something real.' The brahmin wished to choose an auspicious day to send them off, but the bodhisattva, his heart aching within, would not wait, and hurried home with his new household. Entering the hall, he bowed his head; his wife followed, bowing twice, and, with tears falling, advanced three steps and bowed again, announcing her own name: 'I am the wife of your son so-and-so, called such-and-such, and have come to serve the ancestral line and attend to household duties, fulfilling every rite of filial devotion.' She said further: 'I beg only that the honored elder recover swiftly and find blessing, and live out an endless span of years, that I may express my full devotion and attain the virtue of a filial daughter-in-law.' The householder, his resentment bound up within him, died at that very moment. The bodhisattva conducted the funeral with compassionate grief and mourning, and the whole country praised his filial devotion; when the mourning was complete, his continued conduct spread its fragrance to the ten directions." The Buddha said to the monks: "The boy was I myself. The wife was Yaśodharā. The householder was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king, always nurturing and protecting living beings through the four immeasurable virtues, his renown moving both near and far, praised without exception. His uncle was likewise a king, ruling in another country, of a greedy and shameless nature, taking cruelty as a mark of strength. When men of learning praised the bodhisattva, saying, 'The bodhisattva holds within him the benevolence and kindness of heaven and earth,' the uncle, in baseless slander, fabricated a pretext and raised an army, wishing to seize the bodhisattva's kingdom. The bodhisattva's assembled ministers said together: 'We would rather be lowly under heaven's own benevolence than honored under a jackal and wolf's rule.' The people said: 'We would rather be beasts under a ruler who holds the Way than be the people of one who does not.' They selected soldiers, arrayed their army, and prepared their forces. The king, ascending a watchtower to observe the state of his troops, wept, tears streaming down his face, and said: 'To destroy the lives of countless people for the sake of my own single body — a kingdom, once lost, is hard to recover, but a human life, once lost, is harder still to regain. If I withdraw, the whole kingdom will remain at peace — who, then, would suffer any harm?' The king and his principal queen together abandoned the kingdom and fled. "The uncle entered and took possession of the country, governing through greed and cruelty, executing the loyal and upright while advancing the flattering and treacherous; his rule grew harsh and the people suffered, their laments following one after another, and they longed for their former ruler as a filial son longs for a departed, beloved parent. The king and his principal wife dwelt in the mountain forests; in the sea there was a wicked dragon who desired the queen's radiant beauty, and transformed himself into a brahmin, sitting deceitfully with hands joined and legs crossed, his head lowered in quiet contemplation, appearing exactly as an ascetic absorbed in meditative concentration. The king, seeing this with delight, gathered fruit each day to offer him. The dragon, watching for a moment when the king was away, secretly seized the queen and carried her off, intending to return to his home in the sea. The road passed between two mountains through a narrow gorge; there dwelt a great bird there, who spread its wings to block the path, and fought the dragon. The dragon struck the bird with lightning, breaking its right wing, and so escaped and returned to the sea. "The king, returning with his fruit, could not find the queen, and, grieved, said: 'Has some past conduct of mine brought this misfortune upon me now?' He took up his bow and arrows and searched through the mountains for his queen. Coming upon a flowing stream, he followed it to its source, and there found a great macaque weeping in grief; the king, moved, asked: 'Why do you grieve so?' The macaque said: 'My uncle and I were once equal as kings, but my uncle used his greater strength to seize my subjects from me — alas, I have no one to appeal to. And by what cause do you now wander these rugged mountains?' The bodhisattva answered: 'My own grief is the same as yours! I too have lost my wife, and do not know where she has gone.' The macaque said: 'Help me fight and recover my subjects, and I will search for your wife in return — surely we will succeed.' The king agreed, saying, 'Very well.' The next day the macaque fought his uncle, and the king drew his bow and nocked his arrow, his powerful arms fully extended; the uncle, terrified from afar, fled in confusion, and the macaque's subjects returned to him. He then commanded his troops: 'The human king's own queen has been lost somewhere in these mountains — search for her.' The macaques went out in every direction, and found the bird with its wounded wing. The bird said: 'What are you searching for?' They answered: 'The human king has lost his true queen, and we are searching for her.' The bird said: 'A dragon has stolen her! I had no power to stop him — she is now on a great island in the middle of the sea.' Having said this, the bird died. "The macaque king led his troops to the shore of the sea, worried that they had no way to cross it. Śakra, lord of the gods, transformed himself into a macaque afflicted with scabies, and came forward, saying: 'With troops as numerous as the sand of the sea itself, why worry that you cannot reach that island? Let each of you carry a stone and block up the sea, building it into a mountain — why settle for merely reaching the island?' The macaque king appointed him overseer at once, and the troops followed his plan; the work of carrying stones was accomplished, and the troops were able to cross, the stones piling up to surround the island. The dragon then raised a poisonous mist, and the macaque troops all fell ill, collapsing to the ground without exception. The two kings were struck with worry, but the small macaque said again: 'Do not trouble your sacred mind — I will restore the troops to health.' He applied a heavenly medicine to their noses, and they revived at once, their strength surpassing what it had been before. The dragon then raised wind and clouds to block out the heavenly sun, lightning flashing over the sea, and, in his fury, thunder crashed, shaking heaven and earth. The small macaque said: 'The human king is a superb archer — whatever flashes with lightning, that is the dragon itself. Loose your arrow to remove this evil, and bring blessing to the people; even the sages would bear you no grudge for it.' As the thunder crashed and the lightning flashed, the king loosed his arrow, striking the dragon directly through the chest; the dragon, struck by the arrow, died, and the macaque troops praised him. The small macaque took the key from the dragon's gate, opened it, and brought out the queen, and gods and spirits alike rejoiced. The two kings returned together to their former mountain, taking leave of one another with mutual courtesy and humble deference. "It happened that the uncle-king died, leaving no heir, and his ministers and people hurried to seek out their former ruler; meeting again amid those rugged mountains, ruler and subjects wept together and returned, and he thereby gained his uncle's kingdom as well; the countless people rejoiced and wished him ten thousand years of life, and he granted a great amnesty and governed with leniency, the people's hearts filled with joy, smiling as they went about their lives. The king said to his wife: 'A wife separated from her own husband, staying even a single night elsewhere, would already raise suspicion among the people — how much more so an absence of ten days or a month? Return to your own family and observe the ancient rites.' The queen said: 'Though I dwelt in a den of filthy creatures, I remained like a lotus flower rising from muddy water. If my words are true, may the very earth split open.' As soon as she finished speaking, the earth split apart, and she said, 'The truth of my word is now shown.' The king said: 'Excellent! Chastity and purity are the very conduct of a true renunciant.' From that time on, within the kingdom, merchants yielded profit to one another, officials resigned their posts to the more deserving, the noble could bear humility, and the strong did not oppress the weak — this was the king's own transforming influence. Lecherous women reformed their conduct, risking their lives to preserve their chastity; deceivers came to honor good faith, and the cunning and false came to hold to the truth — this was the queen's own transforming influence." The Buddha said to the monks: "The king of that time was I myself. The queen was Yaśodharā. The uncle was Devadatta. Śakra, lord of the gods, was Maitreya." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as a macaque, his strength and ability unmatched, his wisdom surpassing that of ordinary men, always holding vast compassion, relieving living beings. Dwelling deep in the mountains, he climbed trees to gather fruit, and saw in a mountain ravine a man trapped and unable to free himself, who for several days had cried out in anguish, calling to heaven and begging for his life. The macaque, hearing his cries, was moved to tears, and said: 'I have vowed to seek buddhahood for the sake of beings just such as this. If I do not rescue this man now, he will surely perish here in his desperation. I must find a way down into the ravine and carry him out.' He then descended into the deep ravine, had the man climb onto his own back, and, gripping the grasses, climbed up the mountainside and set him down on level ground, showing him the path, and said: 'Go wherever you wish, and once we have parted, take care never to commit any evil.' The rescued man, utterly exhausted, lay down to rest nearby. He thought to himself: 'I nearly starved in that ravine, and even now, having escaped, I am no better off — what real difference is there? Would it not serve me well to kill this macaque and eat him, to sustain my own life?' He struck the macaque's head with a stone, and blood flowed and reddened the earth. The macaque, startled awake from where he lay, staggered dizzily and clung to a tree, yet harbored no resentment at all, grieving instead with compassion and pity for the man who had conceived such wickedness, and thought to himself: 'Since I have not the power to deliver this man now, I vow that in a future life he may always encounter the buddhas, receive their teaching with faith, and, through practicing it, attain liberation — and that never again, in any life to come, may anyone conceive such evil toward another as this man has done to me.'" The Buddha said to the monks: "The macaque was I myself. The man in the ravine was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the bodhisattva and Ānanda had both, in completing the karmic residue of some past transgression, been reborn as dragons. One of the dragons said: 'You and I have dwelt together in the sea, and there is nothing there we have not already seen — shall we not go up together onto dry land to wander and play?' The other answered: 'The people of the land are wicked, and we might meet with some sudden misfortune — we should not go.' The first dragon said again: 'We will simply transform ourselves into small snakes. If the road is empty of people, we will play openly on the main path; if we meet anyone, we will hide ourselves. What is there to worry about?' And so they agreed, and went up together to look around. They had not been out of the water long when, on the road, they encountered a venomous adder. Seeing the two snakes, the adder's wicked intent arose at once, and it moved to attack and harm them, spitting its venom and hissing foam at the two snakes. One of the two snakes felt the urge to use his own spiritual power to kill this venomous adder; the other, with a compassionate heart, held him back with patience, saying: 'One who would be a man of high conduct must forgive the multitude in their folly; to endure what cannot be endured — this is the Buddha's own great and true precept.' He then spoke this verse: 'Greed and desire make a man like one gone mad, holding no heart of benevolence or righteousness; envy and jealousy wish only to harm the sage — only silent patience brings true peace. One who follows no proper law, without a trace of compassion within, stingy and wicked, harming even the practice of giving — only silent patience brings true peace. One who is reckless and without precepts, cruel and harmful, harboring a thief's own heart, unwilling to submit to virtue and the Way — only silent patience brings true peace. One who turns his back on kindness and never returns it, hollow in his pretense and full of flattering deceit — this is the very height of foolish delusion, and only silent patience brings true peace.' "One snake, having thus praised the virtue of patience and spoken this verse to explain his meaning, was heeded respectfully by the other, and so, in the end, they did not harm the adder. One of them said: 'Shall we return now to the sea?' They agreed, and departed together, rousing their own spiritual might so that heaven and earth shook, clouds gathered and rain fell, and their divine radiance transformed the sky; gods and spirits alike were astonished. The adder, terrified, lay as still as a corpse, aware of nothing, and went seven days without eating." The Buddha said to the monks: "The dragon who wished to harm the adder at that time was Ānanda. The dragon who spoke of the Dharma of patience was I myself. The venomous adder was Devadatta. Wherever the bodhisattva has dwelt, life after life, he has practiced patience, never forgetting this conduct even when born among the beasts." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago there was a country called Mātrgrāma, whose king, named Nanda, had mastered spiritual understanding, missing nothing however hidden, and, awakening to the impermanence of the world, said: 'This body of mine will soon decay into mere refuse of the world — what kingdom is there worth preserving?' He gave up glory and abandoned pleasure, put on the robes of a great renunciant, and, content with a single bowl of food, took up the precepts of a monk, dwelling among the mountain forests for thirty years. Beside a tree there was a pit, thirty fathoms deep. At that time a hunter, chasing after a deer, fell into the pit; a bird and a snake, likewise startled, also fell in together with him, and all three were injured and in great distress. Raising their voices to heaven in mournful cries, their sound was one of utter desolation and helplessness. The ascetic, moved with sorrow, lit a torch and, seeing them, wept, and, coming to the edge of the pit, called down: 'Have no fear — I will lift you out of this grave danger.' He made a long rope and lowered it to bring them up; the three creatures, some biting, some clinging to it, thereby preserved their lives whole. All three bowed their heads in gratitude, saying: 'Our lives hung by a mere thread, and the ascetic's vast and boundless kindness has let us see the light of heaven once more. We wish, for the rest of our lives, to provide for whatever you may lack, that we might in some small way repay this weighty grace — though even ten thousand such acts could not equal one part of it.' "The ascetic said: 'I was once a king, my kingdom vast and its people many, its palace treasures and attendant women surpassing those of every other land, and my every wish was answered like an echo, with nothing I could not obtain. But I came to see the kingdom itself as a den of enmity, and sight, sound, fragrance, taste, and beautiful adornment as six blades cutting into my own body, six arrows piercing my own flesh, and it was through these six wicked things, turning endlessly, that I suffered — the fierce and unbearable torment of the three lower paths is something I have come to detest deeply. I gave up my kingdom to become a renunciant, and I vow to attain the state of 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, to enlighten and transform the multitude and bring them back to their original source — how could this vow be for the sake of you three alone? Return now, each of you, to your former dwellings and see your own loved ones, and hold to the three refuges without ever departing from the Buddha's teaching.' "The hunter said: 'I have lived in this world for many years, and though I have seen scholars accumulate virtue and practice goodness, have I ever seen one who, like a disciple of the Buddha, forgives himself in order to relieve the multitude, dwelling in seclusion without seeking fame for it? If the ascetic ever has need, I beg that you come to my home and accept my humble hospitality.' The crow said: 'My name is Bowl — if the ascetic is ever in danger, call my name, and I will hurry to your side.' The snake said: 'My name is Chang — if the ascetic is ever in trouble, call my name, and I will surely come to repay this kindness.' Having said this, each departed. "Some days later, the ascetic went to the hunter's house; the hunter, seeing him approach from a distance, said to his wife: 'That inauspicious man is coming — prepare a meal for him as I instruct you.' She prepared it slowly and reluctantly, and by the time it was ready, midday had already passed, and the ascetic would not eat past that hour. The wife, seeing the ascetic's face darken with displeasure, made a show of urging him to eat, speaking emptily until well past noon. The ascetic then withdrew and returned to the mountain, where he saw the crow, and called out its name: 'Bowl.' The crow asked: 'Where have you come from?' He said: 'From the hunter's house.' The crow asked: 'Did you eat?' He said: 'His meal was not yet ready when noon had already passed, and, since it was no longer proper for me to eat at that hour, I withdrew.' The crow said: 'A wicked and ill-omened demon is hard to save through kindness — to betray benevolence and turn one's back on gratitude is the greatest of wickedness. I have no food or drink to offer you now. Wait here a moment — I will return shortly.' It flew to the country of Pañcāla, entered the king's rear palace, and saw the king's own consort asleep, a bright moon pearl among the ornaments in her hair. The crow seized it in its beak and flew swiftly back, presenting it to the ascetic. "The consort awoke and searched for the pearl but could not find it, and reported this to the king. The king commanded his ministers and people: 'Whoever finds it shall be rewarded with a thousand catties each of gold and silver, and a thousand head each of oxen and horses; whoever finds it and fails to bring it forward shall be punished with the destruction of his entire clan.' The ascetic gave the pearl to the hunter, and the hunter bound him and reported him to the authorities. The king asked: 'Where did you obtain this treasure?' The ascetic thought deeply to himself: 'If I tell the truth of the matter, every crow in the kingdom will surely be put to death; but if I say I stole it, I would no longer be a true disciple of the Buddha.' He remained silent and accepted his punishment, receiving a thousand strokes of the rod without complaint, holding no resentment against the king nor any enmity toward the hunter, and made this vast and compassionate vow: 'When I attain buddhahood, I will deliver living beings from every such suffering as this.' "The king said: 'Take the ascetic and bury him, leaving only his head exposed, and execute him tomorrow.' The ascetic then called out to the snake: 'Chang.' The snake thought: 'No one else in this world knows my name but the ascetic — if he calls out to me so loudly, there must be some reason for it.' It hurried to him, and, seeing the ascetic in such a state, bowed its head and asked: 'By what cause has this befallen you?' The ascetic told him the whole matter from beginning to end. The snake, weeping, said: 'The ascetic's benevolence is as vast as heaven and earth, and yet he has still met with calamity — how much more, then, for those without the Way; who would ever protect them? Heaven's own benevolence bears no grudge, but this king has only a single son, no other heir; I will enter the palace and bite the crown prince, so that his life hangs by a thread; then, with the divine medicine I possess, I will heal him, and he will recover at once.' The snake entered the palace that night and bit the prince, and his breath ceased. His body was kept for three days, and a proclamation was made: 'Whoever can revive the prince shall be granted half the kingdom to rule.' They carried his body to the mountains to cremate it, and the way passed near where the ascetic was; the ascetic said: 'What illness has struck the prince, that his life should be lost? Do not cremate him yet — I am able to revive him.' His attendants, hearing this, hurried to report it to the king. The king's heart, filled with mingled sorrow and joy, was again overcome, and he said: 'I forgive you your crime, and will divide my kingdom, making you a king as well.' The ascetic applied medicine to the prince's body, and the prince suddenly rose up, saying: 'How have I come to be here?' His attendants told him the whole story. The prince returned to the palace, and there was no one, high or low, who did not rejoice and dance for joy. "The kingdom was offered to him in division, but he accepted none of it. The king, astonished, said: 'He refuses even a divided kingdom — how could he ever have been a thief?' He asked: 'From what country do you come? What led you to become a renunciant? And by what means did you obtain the pearl? Your conduct is so lofty, and yet you suffered this calamity — how did this come to pass?' The ascetic told the whole story from beginning to end, and the king, deeply moved, wept, tears covering his face. The king said to the hunter: 'You have rendered great service to this kingdom — summon all your nine classes of relatives, that I may reward you richly.' His relatives, great and small, all came to the palace gate, and the king said: 'To be without benevolence and to betray gratitude is the very root of all evil,' and had them all put to death. The ascetic returned to the mountains to study the Way, diligent and untiring, and when his life ended, he was reborn in heaven." The Buddha said to the monks: "The ascetic of that time was I myself. The crow was Śāriputra. The snake was Ānanda. The hunter was Devadatta. His wife was the woman who bore the poisoned vessel." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his vast benevolence, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

Long ago the king of Kauśāmbī was named Yikadā, his kingdom vast, his people flourishing, and he governed with rectitude, never wronging the countless people. The king had two children, a son and a daughter; the son was named Sudatta, and the daughter was named Añjanā, both of pure and clean conduct, and the king cherished them greatly. He had a golden pool made for them, and the two children entered the pool to bathe; within the pool lived a turtle named Golden, blind in one eye, who was also playing in the water, and who brushed against the two children's bodies, startling them into loud cries. The king asked the reason, and they said: 'There is something in the pool that touched us and frightened us.' The king, angry, said: 'This pool was made for my children — what creature dwells in it that would frighten them so?' He ordered nets cast to catch it; though it was a rare and marvelous dragon-spirit, they still managed to capture it. Once the fisherman had caught the turtle, the king asked, 'By what means should it be killed?' Some ministers said, 'Cut off its head.' Others said, 'Burn it alive.' Others said, 'Chop it up and make a soup.' One minister said: 'None of these deaths is severe enough — only to throw it into the great ocean, that is what may truly be called severe.' The turtle laughed and said: 'Only that, indeed, would be severe.' The king had it thrown into the river as instructed. "The turtle, having escaped, hurried joyfully to the palace of the dragon king, and said to him: 'The human king Yikadā has a daughter, of radiant beauty, a match for any heavenly maiden. This human king's heart is generous and open — the great king should seek this princess as his own bride, to form a bond of kinship with him.' The dragon said: 'Is this truly so?' The turtle said, 'Indeed it is.' The dragon prepared a lavish feast for the turtle, served in vessels of every treasure, and the turtle said: 'Send worthy ministers ahead to seek the answer — my king wishes to have his decision.' The dragon sent sixteen worthy ministers, who followed the turtle to the moat beneath the human king's city wall. The turtle said: 'Wait here — I will go up and report.' The turtle then fled and never returned. The sixteen ministers, troubled and anxious, entered the city together to see the king. The king asked, 'Why have these dragons come?' They answered: 'The Heavenly King has treated us, his servants, with such kindness; our king wishes to take your honored daughter as his own queen, and has sent us to escort her.' The king, angry, said: 'How could the daughter of a human king ever be wed to a snake or a dragon?' The dragons answered: 'The great king himself sent the divine turtle to convey this proposal — we, his servants, have not come here without cause.' The king still refused. The dragons then used their transformative power, causing every object within the palace to become dragons, shining and coiling around the king from every side. The king, terrified, cried out; his ministers, astonished, all hurried below the hall to ask the reason. The king explained the whole situation, and his ministers all said together: 'How could we let the kingdom perish for the sake of a single daughter?' "The king and his ministers went to the water's edge to send off the princess, and she became the dragon's queen, and bore him a son and a daughter. The son was named Pāṇḍara; when the dragon king died, the son inherited the throne and became king. Wishing to give up the defilements of worldly glory and study the path of lofty conduct, though he had ten thousand wives who all followed after him wherever he went, he found he could not escape them even by fleeing into hidden seclusion. Climbing onto land, beneath a private-grove tree, he concealed his own form, transforming into a serpent, coiled and lying still. At night, lights like lamps appeared beneath that tree, several dozen of them, and each day a rain of various flowers fell, their colors and fragrance more beautiful than anything the world had ever seen. "There was a man of that country skilled at subduing dragons, named Poto, who entered the mountains seeking a dragon in order to beg alms from it; he came upon a cowherd boy and asked him whether he had seen anything unusual. The boy said: 'I have seen a snake, coiled and lying still beneath that tree; at night there are dozens of lamp-like lights in the tree above, and beneath it flowers fall like snow, their color and fragrance beyond description. I have drawn close to it myself, and it has shown no intent to harm me.' The sorcerer said: 'Excellent! This fulfills my very wish.' He then smeared poison on the dragon's teeth, so that all its teeth fell out, and beat it with a staff until its skin was torn and its bones broken. The sorcerer stroked it with his hand from head to tail, and its pain was beyond measure, and yet it harbored no resentment at all, blaming instead its own past conduct that had not yet been fully purified, and thus brought this calamity upon itself, and made this vow: 'When I attain buddhahood, I will relieve every living being and bring them all to peace, that none may suffer as I do now.' "The sorcerer placed the dragon in a small box and carried it about, begging as he traveled. In every country he visited, he made the dragon dance, and the ministers and common people of every kingdom, without exception, were struck with terror at the sight. The sorcerer demanded: 'A thousand catties each of gold and silver, a thousand male and female servants each, and a thousand each of elephants, horses, oxen, and carts and every kind of livestock.' In every country he visited, he obtained exactly this. He then journeyed on into the very country of the dragon king's own grandfather; the dragon's mother and siblings, all dwelling on land at that time, had transformed themselves into birds and dwelt uneasily near the royal palace. When the sorcerer arrived, the dragon king, transformed with five heads, was about to come out and dance, but, seeing his own mother, brothers, and sister there, he was overcome with shame and drew back, refusing to come out and perform. The sorcerer called to him five or six times, and the dragon, at last, collapsed in submission. His mother then resumed her human form, and met with the king, telling him the whole story from beginning to end. The king and his ministers and people were all moved to grief. The king wished to kill the sorcerer, but the dragon pleaded on his behalf: 'This is the fruit of what I myself sowed in a past life, and I must now bear its consequence — it would not be right to kill him and thereby increase future enmity. Grant him whatever he wishes, and give it to him freely. Only through such vast compassion as this can the Buddha's own path be attained.' The king then, following the example of the other kingdoms, gave him everything he desired according to his wishes. "The sorcerer, having obtained these great treasures, departed the kingdom in delight, but, crossing into the territory of another country, encountered bandits, who killed and dismembered him, and took every one of his possessions. Before this, the dragon and his mother had bidden the king farewell, saying: 'If the great king ever thinks of us and calls our names, we will come to you at once, without any hesitation.' The king, together with his ministers and people, came to the water's edge to see them off, and there was no one in the whole kingdom who did not weep and grieve, casting themselves down in sorrow." The Buddha said to the monks: "The dragon king Pāṇḍara was I myself. The king Yikadā of Kauśāmbī was Ānanda. The mother is now my own mother. The younger brother was Śāriputra. The younger sister was the nun Blue Lotus Flower. The cruel dragon-tamer was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his vast compassion, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

The Sūtra of the Sparrow King. "Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the sparrows, his compassionate heart relieving the multitude, honored like a loving mother, grieving over their hardships as though parted from his own kin, rejoicing at their advancement in the Way as though it were his own peace of mind, and cherishing living beings as tenderly as he would guard a wound on his own body. There was a tiger who had eaten some prey and had a bone lodged crosswise in his teeth, so that he was in great pain and near death. The sparrow, seeing this, was moved with sorrow, and thought: 'The buddhas teach that food itself can be a source of calamity — and here is the proof of it.' He entered the tiger's mouth and pecked at the bone, day after day, until his own beak developed sores and his body grew thin and worn, but at last the bone came out and the tiger recovered. The sparrow flew up into a tree and spoke the Buddha's teaching, saying: 'Killing is a cruel and violent thing, and there is no greater evil than it; if another were to kill you, would you find joy in that? One should measure others by one's own self, and thereby hold the benevolence of a springtime heaven. The benevolent extend their compassion universally, and blessing answers them as an echo answers a sound; the cruel and violent harm the multitude, and calamity pursues them as surely as a shadow follows a form. Consider well what I have said.' The tiger, hearing the sparrow's admonition, grew furiously angry, and said: 'You have only just left my mouth, and already you dare to lecture me at such length?' The sparrow, seeing that he could not be transformed, was struck with sorrowful pity for him, and flew swiftly away." The Buddha said to the monks: "The sparrow king was I myself. The tiger was Devadatta. The bodhisattva, life after life, has held a compassionate heart to relieve the multitude, taking this as his own most urgent concern, as though worrying over his own body." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

The Sūtra of Journeying to the Land of the Naked. "Long ago the bodhisattva had an uncle and a nephew, who each brought their own goods to trade, and together traveled to the Land of the Naked. The uncle said: 'Those of deep fortune find food and clothing come to them naturally; those of thin fortune must exert their own strength. Now, in that naked land, there is no Buddha, no Dharma, no community of monks — it may truly be called a land without civilization. When we go there, to bow to their customs and win their favor will surely be difficult. Entering a country, one should follow its customs; in advancing and withdrawing, one should follow local propriety, speaking gently and humbly, concealing one's own understanding and appearing foolish — this is the very consideration of a great being.' The elder brother said: 'Proper ritual cannot be sacrificed, and virtue cannot be abandoned — how could we go naked and destroy our own established customs?' The nephew said: 'The ancient sages themselves taught that though the body may be lost, one's conduct must not be lost — this is the constant rule of the precepts. To keep gold hidden while showing only copper on the outside, to set aside formality according to the times — earning criticism at first and praise later — this is the very greatness of skillful expedient means!' And so they went together to that land. The elder brother said: 'You go in first, and observe what is gained and lost there, then send word back to tell me.' The nephew said, 'I will do so respectfully.' Within ten days, his messenger returned to report to the elder brother: 'One must indeed follow their customs here.' The elder brother, in a fury, said: 'To abandon human ways and follow those of beasts — is this the conduct of a gentleman? You may do as you please, but I will not!' "It was the custom of that country to hold festivities every new moon and full moon night, anointing their heads with sesame oil, painting their bodies with white clay, stringing various bones as necklaces, striking two stones together, men and women joining hands, wandering freely in song and dance; the bodhisattva joined in with them, and the people of the country praised him with delight. The king loved his people and honored his guests, one after another, and bought up all his goods, paying him ten times their worth. The elder brother entered the country still in his cart and formal dress, speaking always according to strict propriety, which repeatedly went against the people's own wishes. The king, angered by the people's complaints against him, confiscated his goods and had him beaten. The nephew pleaded on his behalf, and he was released, and the two returned together to their own country. Those who saw the nephew off filled the road in a great crowd; those who cursed the elder brother filled the air with their jeers. The elder brother, ashamed and furious, said: 'What kinship do they have with you, and what enmity do they bear against me? That you should gain what I have lost — is this not the result of slanderous talk against me?' He then, tying a knot in his nephew's own belt, made this vow: 'From this day forward, life after life, I will make you suffer cruelly, and will never forgive you.' The bodhisattva, struck with sorrow, wept, and made this vow of his own: 'May I, life after life, meet the Buddha, see the Dharma, and personally honor the community of monks, and, through the four immeasurable virtues, universally cover and relieve living beings, honoring my elder brother as I would honor myself, never once breaking this vow.' From that time on, whenever the elder brother sought to overcome the younger, the younger always found a way to relieve him in turn." The Buddha said to the monks: "The nephew of that time was I myself. The elder brother was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through the gentle perfection of compassion, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

The Sūtra of Six Years' Hunger to Complete a Debt of Guilt. "Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king, who took refuge in the Three Jewels and fully honored the ten virtues, his virtue reaching far and wide, with no one who did not receive his transforming influence; weapons of war were never used, and there were no prisons in his land; the wind and rain came in their proper season, the country prospered and the people were wealthy, and all within the four directions lived in health and peace, with no cry of complaint heard on any road; false and frivolous writings were entirely unspoken throughout the kingdom, and there was no one who did not recite the true teaching of the six perfections. At that time there was a brahmin ascetic of pure and clean conduct, dwelling in quiet retreat among the mountain forests, taking no part in worldly affairs, devoted only to virtue. One night, thirsty, he went to drink, and, by mistake, drank from a lotus pond that belonged to a man of the country; having drunk, he realized his error and thought: 'That man bought this pond in order to offer its lotus flowers to the Buddha's shrine, sustaining himself on its fruits; I drank of its water without informing its owner — this is theft. The consequence of theft is first to enter Mount Tai, then to be reborn as an animal, butchered and sold in the marketplace to repay one's past debt; and even if one manages to be reborn human, one would be born a slave or servant. It would be better for me to settle this account now, rather than leave this trouble for the future.' He went before the palace and confessed of his own accord that he had committed theft, and asked only that the great king punish him according to the law, and settle the matter now, so that he might avoid future guilt. The king said: 'This is water that occurs naturally, not a treasured possession — what crime could there be in it?' He answered: 'Whoever buys a house thereby owns its well; whoever claims a field thereby values even the grass upon it; to draw water from a well or cut its grass without permission is not to be done. I drank without informing the owner — how is this not theft? I beg the king to judge this matter.' The king said: 'The affairs of state are many and pressing — for now, sit in the garden and wait.' The crown prince had him placed deep within the garden, and the press of state affairs caused the king to forget him entirely for six days. Suddenly recalling him, he said: 'Is the ascetic still there? Summon him at once.' The ascetic, having kept his resolve through six days of hunger and thirst, came before the king; his body wasted and thin, he rose and staggered as he walked. The king, seeing this, wept, and said: 'My fault is grave indeed.' The queen laughed at this. The king had the ascetic bathed and washed, prepared a full feast for him, personally attended to his needs, and, bowing his head, repented his fault, saying: 'As a ruler of men, when my people go hungry, I myself should feel that hunger; when they are cold, I myself should feel that cold — how much more so for one who holds to the Way and practices virtue? The blessing of an entire kingdom's worth of good people does not equal the virtue of a single person of lofty and worthy conduct; the peace of a kingdom, the security of its people, the timely harvest of its grain in due season — by whose merit, if not the merit of upholding the precepts, could these ever be brought about?' He said to the ascetic: 'To drink water without informing its owner brought guilt as grave as this — how much graver, then, must the guilt of true theft be? I forgive you this fault, on the condition that it never happen again.' The ascetic said: 'Excellent! I receive the king's vast and generous grace.' "From that time on, turning through the endless cycle of birth and death, until the very moment he approached buddhahood, he went six years without food; only when that debt of guilt was fully paid was the path accomplished, through Yaśodharā's own release of him, and Rāhula was then born. The crown prince, having given up his kingdom to strive in the mountain forests, was thought by those of wrong views to be mad and deluded, and slanderous words followed him from more than one direction. The crown prince, hearing this, endured this humiliation and slander with patience, pursuing instead his compassionate work of relief, and his blessing grew ever greater until the Way was accomplished; the gods gathered like clouds, bowing their heads and receiving his influence, and kings, ministers, and people alike, without exception, took refuge in him." The Buddha said to the monks: "The king of that time was I myself. The queen was Yaśodharā. The crown prince was Rāhula. To honor evil is to invite disaster in pursuit; to bestow virtue is to bring blessing in return — how could one fail to be careful of this! Because the king forgot the ascetic and let him go hungry for six days, he bore the consequence of six years of hunger himself; because, after those six days, the king personally attended to his needs, that same debt of six years was fully paid and the Way was accomplished. Because Yaśodharā laughed at him then, she now carried Rāhula for a grave illness of six years. Because the crown prince had placed the ascetic deep within the garden, he himself dwelt in obscurity and darkness for six years. The foolish, in their heavy ignorance, do not understand what should be embraced and what abandoned, and, with a wicked heart, turn against the Buddha, the monks, and brahmin ascetics; to cut off another's hand or pull out their tongue is a suffering of only a single lifetime; but to strike falsely with the hand, or to slander falsely with the mouth, brings, at death, a fall into Mount Tai, where the demons of Mount Tai pull out the sinner's own tongue, lay it upon burning sand, and plow it with an ox, and further drive burning nails through the five parts of the body, so that death itself is sought but cannot be found. Such is the calamity of wickedness — one should follow only the true path, and never what is false." This is how the bodhisattva, through the Dharma-patience, practicing the boundless perfection of patience, endured with patience.

The Sūtra of the Śākya Clan's Debt of Guilt. "Long ago the bodhisattva, holding to the precepts and practicing purity, accumulated merit and virtue over a long span, and at last attained the state of Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened one, and dwelt in the country of Śrāvastī. Gods, dragons, spirits, kings, ministers, and people all took refuge in him, and sorcery and wicked arts, meeting the Buddha's own towering radiance, withered away like fireflies before the brightness of the sun. Greed and envy arose among some, unable to see the fire that would consume their own lives, and a wicked faction conspired together, persuading a female disciple named Sundarī to slander the World-Honored One. Among the people of that country who had not yet grasped the truth, doubt lingered, and their hearts grew suspicious of the monks; the king too was troubled by this. Those who practiced sorcery and wicked corruption, quarreling and accusing one another over money, exposed their own corruption, and disaster fell upon them in turn; at once they were cast down, and the truth was made manifest, and gods and men alike praised this as good. The king went to the monastery, bowed his head, and repented his fault, and, out of shame, sent a matchmaker to inquire whether he might seek the hand of one of the Buddha's own sisters in marriage, to seal this bond and put an end to any lingering resentment with the Śākya clan. The Blessed One said: 'I left my family to become a renunciant, and no longer take part in worldly affairs — the matter of marriage rests entirely with my father the king.' The king then sent an envoy to convey his respects and formally propose this bond of kinship. The Śākyas refused. The king said: 'The Buddha dwells in my own kingdom, and you have long gone back and forth between us; the wise bear no grudges, but only fools harbor lasting enmity. Give me the daughter of even one of your lowliest concubines — how could that possibly cause such resentment?' The king consented, saying, 'It shall be so,' and the marriage was thus completed. "They had one son, who asked to visit his mother's relatives, and so went to the land of the Śākyas. At that time, the Buddha himself was about to return to instruct and transform the Śākya clan, and the Śākyas, filled with joy, built a monastery for him, digging three feet into the earth and filling it with sandalwood incense, and gathered the treasures of the whole country to build the Buddha's monastery, radiant and magnificent as though it were a heavenly palace; word of it spread to neighboring countries, and there was no one who did not leap with delight at the news. Before the Buddha had yet come to sit within it, this illegitimate son entered to look upon it, and exclaimed: 'Such craftsmanship, such wondrous treasures in this monastery — only the palace of Śakra himself could compare to it.' He said: 'The Buddha has not yet come here — if I were to sit upon this seat just once, I would have no regret even at the cost of my life.' He then ascended and sat upon it. A close friend of this illegitimate son, named Tou-qie-mo, said: 'What harm could there be in that?' and likewise ascended and sat down. A powerful and heroic man of the Śākya clan rebuked him sternly, saying: 'This is the seat of the World-Honored One — even Śakra himself does not sit upon it uninvited — how dare the son of a servant-woman ascend it?' They tore the seat apart and rebuilt it. The illegitimate son withdrew, and said to his friend: 'This humiliation is beyond bearing! If I ever become king, do not let this be forgotten.' His friend said, 'Just as you say.' Returning, he clung to his mother, wishing to be made crown prince, and his mother, through sorcery, arranged for his wish to be granted. The king said: 'Never before has such a thing been heard of! To speak such wild words without cause only brings shame upon oneself.' But wicked sorcery worked within the palace, and flattering ministers spoke their clever words, until at last two rightful heirs were established, and the people were divided between them to be governed. "When the great king died, the throne was claimed by both, and the people followed whichever they favored, benevolent and cruel factions dividing along separate paths; the benevolent honored the elder brother, while the cruel hurried to follow the younger. The friend Tou-qie-mo became prime minister, and prepared weapons of war, mustering troops and supplies, and reported this according to the old grudge. The king said, 'Very well,' and, favoring his fierce general and soldiers, set out on the march. Along the way, he saw the Buddha seated beside the road, beneath a tree half-withered and half-alive. The king came forward, bowed his head, and asked: 'Why does the Buddha not sit beneath a tree in full life, but instead beneath one half-withered?' The Blessed One said: 'This tree is named Śākya — I cherish its name, and, through the way of benevolence, wish to relieve its hardship, giving moisture to what is withered and blessing to what still lives.' The king, struck with sorrow, was ashamed within himself, and thought: 'The Buddha's benevolence is vast and universal, extending its grace even to the grass and trees — how much more, then, to human beings?' And with this, he turned his troops back. "The prime minister, observing the heavens, saw that the Śākya clan's fortune had run its course and disaster was rising, and reported this once again. The army set out once more, and, before reaching the Śākya city, while still some leagues away, the sound of bowstrings and arrows within the city rose like a great storm of wind and rain; banners and canopies were snapped and their poles severed, armor was torn and reins cut, and the soldiers and horses, shaken and startled, all lost their composure. The king again turned back in flight. The people of the Śākya clan asked the Buddha: 'What shall we do about this enemy?' He said: 'Bar the gates firmly, and destroy the bridge over the moat.' The king set out with his army once more; Maudgalyāyana said to the Buddha: 'I wish to use the spiritual power of an arhat to transform a heavenly net, covering the city for forty leagues around — what could the king do to the Śākyas then?' The Blessed One said: 'What could this do against the force of their own past guilt?' He said further, 'Then let me leap them away to some other buddha-land?' The Buddha said: 'What could this do against the force of their own past guilt?' Maudgalyāyana said: 'I am able to remove what has form — but what can be done against a guilt that has no form at all?' The Blessed One said: 'Where an evil seed has been sown, calamity is bound to arise — who could ever remove that? Take one child of the Śākya clan and place him beneath my own alms bowl, and let this prove the truth of the matter.' Maudgalyāyana did exactly as instructed. "The elders of the Śākya clan, receiving this instruction, guarded the gates; Māra transformed himself into a venerable elder, and rebuked the Śākyas, saying: 'The king is only passing through on his way elsewhere — why do you cut him off? This will only increase future harm. Is this truly the conduct of the Buddha's own disciples?' Māra then, with his own force, pulled out the bolt and threw open the gate, and the soldiers poured in like water bursting from a breached dam. Śākyamahānāma, the Śākya clan's great general, had studied under the same teacher as the former king, and had sworn an oath of friendship unto death; he said to the king: 'Grant your fierce soldiers pause for only the space of a single meal, that the people within the city may escape with their lives.' The king said, 'Very well.' The great general went to the water's edge, faced the Buddha's direction, bowed his head, and, weeping, said: 'With my own humble life, I beg for the lives of these few people — I vow that living beings of the ten directions may all honor the Buddha's teaching, forgiving themselves to relieve the multitude, their grace joined with heaven and earth, so that never again may a wicked and merciless king harm living beings as this lawless ruler has done.' He then entered the water, tying his own hair to the roots of a tree, and after a while, his life came to its end. The king sent a messenger to look, and the messenger returned and reported exactly what had happened. His soldiers entered the city and buried the Śākya people halfway in the ground, then had them dragged by teams of oxen fitted with crossbeams, killing them thus, some by trampling hooves, some by the blade. "At that time the Buddha suffered a headache, his pain beyond description. Brahmā, Śakra, and the Four Great Heavenly Kings all stood by with joined hands, grieving for him. Among the Śākyas there were those who took refuge in the Three Jewels of their own accord, those who recited the scriptures, and those who gave rise to compassionate thoughts even then. Of the Śākya clan's three cities, the campaign had not yet been completed when the king, recalling how Mahānāma had sacrificed his own life to beg for the lives of his people, was struck with sorrow, and withdrew his troops and disbanded his army, sending an envoy to convey his respects, saying: 'My soldiers are exhausted — let us return to the kingdom and let the army rest.' Some days later, he came in proper ceremonial dress to bow at the Buddha's feet. The Buddha, having received his apology, cared for himself as the king departed. As the envoy withdrew, the Buddha watched him go. Ānanda, adjusting his robes, bowed and said: 'The Buddha does not watch anyone without reason — there must be some cause for this.' The Blessed One said: 'The Śākya clan's own guilt has now been paid in full; the king's own guilt is only now arising. Seven days from now, the demons of Mount Tai will burn the king and his ministers and people with fire; the king's guilt cannot be saved, just as the calamity of the Śākyas could not be averted.' The Buddha had Ānanda lift his alms bowl, and the person placed beneath it had also died. The Buddha, together with the monks, went to the lecture hall of a certain brahmin, passing on the way through the very place where the Śākyas had died; some bodies were already dead, others had broken arms, thighs, or shins, and, seeing the Buddha approach, some, striking their own cheeks and groaning, said: 'We take refuge in the Buddha, we take refuge in the Dharma, we take refuge in the sacred community — we vow that living beings of the ten directions may all attain lasting peace, and never suffer as we do now.' At that moment, seats arose naturally from the earth, the ground itself seamless and unbroken, and all the monks sat upon them. The Buddha said: 'This king's rebellion and violence have brought guilt vast and wide.' He then asked the monks: 'Have you ever seen a butcher, a hunter, or a fisherman attain the rank of a flying, wheel-turning emperor?' They answered, 'We have not.' The Buddha said: 'Just so — I too have never seen such a thing, precisely because they lack the four immeasurable minds of compassion toward living beings.' "The king, traveling by the shore of a lake, had his troops enter the water to bathe; a spirit transformed itself into a venomous insect and stung the soldiers, the poison spreading and turning their bodies black, some dying within the water, some dying every hundred paces or every league along the road. Barely half of them managed to reach the kingdom, and wicked spirits gathered like clouds. Within the palace, at night, human voices and the sounds of creatures were heard; people huddled together, clinging to one another, awaiting only the dawn to know if they still lived; the sun and moon grew dim and were eclipsed, the constellations lost their proper courses, and strange omens followed one after another from beginning to end, and there was no one who did not resent the king for this. The king, hearing of the Buddha's warning of a coming calamity by fire, felt as though he were being scalded within, and sent an envoy to inquire into the truth of the matter. The Buddha explained exactly as he had said before; the envoy returned and reported this in full, and the whole kingdom shook as though it would shatter like broken tile. The king gathered his ministers and deliberated, saying: 'Shall we flee to the mountains, or to the water?' In the end, he boarded a ship and put out to sea; the strong and wealthy were able to follow him, while the poor and weak were left behind in the kingdom. Within the king's own inner palace, the women boarded the ship in their finest garments, and, watching for the fire, took off their outer robes and set their burning-glass gems upon them. That very day, clouds gathered thick and dark, wind and rain lashed down violently, and the ship, its mooring lines severed, was swept adrift; the ministers and people said together: 'The wicked king's own violent deeds have at last brought this calamity upon us.' Around midday, the sun came out and struck the burning-glass gems, and they burst into flame, beginning at the king's own ship; the great spirits of Mount Tai gathered like clouds amid thunder and lightning, and throughout the entire land, all fell alive into the hell of Mount Tai. Those who had remained behind on shore, though struck with fear, were spared." The Buddha, on that very day, entered into a meditation of compassion, and the monks asked Ānanda: "Why has the Buddha not come out?" He answered: "An entire kingdom has met with great calamity, and the Buddha has entered a meditation of compassion — this is why he does not come out." The Buddha emerged the next morning, and the monks bowed their heads to the ground; Brahmā, Śakra, the Four Heavenly Kings, the various dragons and spirits, kings, ministers, and people all bowed their heads and took their seats. Ānanda, adjusting his robes, asked about the origin of the calamity that had befallen the two kingdoms: "We beg you to resolve our doubts, that living beings may understand clearly the causes of fortune and misfortune." The Buddha said to Ānanda: "Long ago there were three neighboring kingdoms, each with its own king; at that time, the Buddha had long since departed the world, and the scriptures were no longer cultivated. In the country where the bodhisattva then dwelt, there happened to be a lake, from which countless fish were caught. A neighboring country, hearing of this abundance, sent resources to buy up the fish, and, once they were exhausted, sadly returned home. A more distant country did not learn of this, and had no thought of buying any. Those who fished and hunted in that lake are now the three hundred million members of the Śākya clan who have died. The people of the one country who were delighted to buy the fish are now the people of the one city who feared the loss of their own wealth and fled. The people of the distant country who never heard of the fish being caught are now the people within the city who did not even know the king was coming. At that time, I myself once struck a fish upon the head, laughing carelessly as I did so; now, having attained buddhahood and become honored in the three realms, I have still not escaped the calamity of a headache — how much more, then, for ordinary people? Let all my disciples set their hearts upright, cultivate virtue and kindness, bring peace to the multitude, forgive themselves in order to relieve others, and take care never to kill living beings, steal another's property, commit adultery with another's wife, speak divisively or curse harshly, speak falsely or chatter idly, harbor envy, anger, or delusion, or slander the Three Jewels. There is no greater calamity than the ten evils, and no higher glory of blessing than the ten virtues. To kill another is to kill oneself; to give life to another is to give life to oneself. It is far better to labor one's mind in thinking of the Way, to speak of the Way with one's mouth, and to practice the Way with one's body, than to plot evil in one's mind, speak evil with one's mouth, and act evilly with one's body. Give what is good, and blessing follows in pursuit; do what is evil, and calamity follows close behind, as surely as an echo answers a sound or a shadow follows a form. Whoever witnesses such a transformation as this should take care never to depart from the benevolence of a springtime heaven, and never to honor the cruelty of a jackal or wolf." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, the four classes of disciples, the gods, dragons, and spirits, all rejoiced greatly, and, bowing their heads, departed.