Fascicle 6

Long ago the bodhisattva was, at that time, an ordinary man, who heard of the Buddha's name, his fine marks, the power of his attainment, and his towering merit and virtue, honored together by all the gods, and that through his lofty conduct every suffering of living beings could be entirely dissolved. The bodhisattva, holding this in his mind, wept without rest, saying: "If I could receive the teachings of this heavenly teacher and recite and practice them, and thereby attain buddhahood, could I not heal the sicknesses of living beings and restore them to their own original purity?" But the Buddha had already left the world at that time, and there was no community of monks through whom he could receive this teaching. Nearby there lived an ordinary man of greedy and cruel nature, who, seeing the bodhisattva's sharp and eager resolve, said: "I know a single chapter of the Buddha's own three precepts — do you wish to receive it?" The bodhisattva, hearing this, was filled with immeasurable joy, bowed his head at the man's feet, and, prostrate on the ground, begged for the teaching. The one who knew the verse said: "This is the essential teaching of the unsurpassed, true and right, most perfectly awakened one, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men — do you truly think you may simply hear it for nothing?" He answered: "I beg to ask what the proper offering should be — what would that consist of?" He said: "If your sincerity is truly earnest, then let a needle be driven into every single pore of your body, and if, though your blood flows and your body aches, your heart does not regret it, then you may hear this honored teaching." He answered: "To hear the Buddha's teaching even at the cost of my own life is something I would gladly do — how much more so merely to be pierced and yet live?" He then had needles set out and driven into his own body, until his blood flowed like a spring, and the bodhisattva, rejoicing at the prospect of hearing the Dharma, entered a state of concentration free of pain. "Śakra, lord of the gods, witnessing the bodhisattva's sharp resolve, was moved with compassion for him, and by his transformative power made it appear that every single pore of his body bore a needle. The man, seeing this, recognized the loftiness of his resolve, and bestowed the teaching upon him: 'Guard your mouth, restrain your intentions, let your body commit no evil — cultivate these three practices, and you will attain a swift crossing to virtue. This is the true teaching of the precepts of the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and honored one, the most perfectly awakened.' The bodhisattva, hearing this precept, rejoiced and bowed his head, and, looking back at his own body, found the needles had vanished entirely; his countenance shone radiant, his strength surpassing what it had been before, and there was no god, human, spirit, or dragon who did not sigh in admiration. His resolve advancing, his conduct growing ever loftier, step following step, he at last attained buddhahood, and relieved living beings." The Buddha said to the monks: "The one who bestowed the verse upon the bodhisattva is now Devadatta. Though Devadatta knew the Buddha's own verse before anyone else, he was like a blind man holding a torch to light the way for others — unable to see by its light himself, what benefit was it to him?" This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was the king of the macaques, always wandering and playing together with five hundred macaques. At that time the world suffered a great drought, and fruit grew scarce; the country's royal city was not far from the mountains, separated only by a small stream, and the macaque king led his troop into the royal garden to eat its fruit. The garden's overseer reported this. The king said: "Guard it secretly, and do not let them escape." The macaque king, learning of this, said with sorrow: "As leader of this troop, whatever fortune or misfortune befalls it is my own responsibility; out of greed for fruit to sustain our lives, I have led my troop into danger." He commanded his troop: "Spread out and gather vines." The troop returned with vines, which they joined end to end, tying one end to the branch of a great tree. The macaque king tied the other end around his own waist, climbed the tree, and threw himself across, gripping the branch on the far side — but the vine was too short, and his body hung suspended in the gap. He commanded his troop: "Cross quickly along the vine." Once they had all crossed, the strain tore through both his arms, and he fell to the water's edge below, his breath failing before reviving again. The king of that country, making his morning rounds, came upon the great macaque, who was able to speak in human language, and, bowing his head, explained of his own accord: 'This wild creature, clinging to life, relied on your own royal favor; when the drought left our fruit scarce, we trespassed against your heavenly garden, and the fault is mine alone. I beg you to forgive the rest of my troop — as for this decaying flesh of a mere insect-like creature, it may serve as a single morning's dish for your royal kitchen.' The king, looking up, sighed: 'The leader of mere insects and beasts, giving his own life to save the multitude, holds within him the vast benevolence of the ancient sages. I, who rule as a lord of men, could I ever match this?' He wept for him, ordered his bonds released, had him carried gently to level ground, and commanded throughout the kingdom that the macaques be allowed to eat freely, with any who harmed them to be punished as a common thief. Returning, he told the queen of this display of benevolent grace: 'Even the conduct of the ancient sages did not equal this — my own benevolence is but a single hair, while his surpasses even Mount Kunlun.' The queen said: 'Excellent! What a marvel this creature is. The king should let it eat as it wishes, and allow no harm to come to the rest.' The king said, 'I have already commanded it so.'" The Buddha said to the monks: "The macaque king was I myself. The king was Ānanda. The five hundred macaques are now these five hundred monks." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the deer, his strength surpassing the herd, his benevolent love covering all, and the herd of deer, drawn by his example, followed him to graze near a royal garden. The gardener reported this, and the king led his soldiers to encircle and close in upon them. The deer king, learning of this, wept and said: "This danger you face is entirely my own fault. I will give up my own life to save you, my humble followers." The deer king came forward and offered himself, lowering his two front legs, and said: "Climb up and leap over me, and you may all be saved." The herd did as he said, and every one of them escaped unharmed. His own body's flesh was torn open, his blood flowing like a spring, and, collapsing to the ground, he could barely draw breath, his pain beyond words. The herd cried out in mourning, circling him and unwilling to leave. The human king, seeing his broken body, the blood reddening the ground, and no longer seeing the rest of the herd, asked: "What has happened here?" The deer king answered: "My own conduct was unworthy, and, having received the fate of a beast, I sought fine grass to sustain my meager life, trespassing against the kingdom's own borders — a fault deserving of the gravest punishment. Though my flesh is now torn apart, my two haunches and five organs remain whole and intact — I beg only that they may provide a single morning's meal for your royal kitchen." The king asked, "By what cause have you come to this?" The deer king told him the whole story from beginning to end. The king, moved to sorrow, wept and said: "You, though a mere beast, hold within you the vast benevolence of heaven and earth, destroying your own life to save the multitude; and I, who rule as a lord of men, indulge instead in wanton killing, destroying what heaven itself has given life to?" He at once issued a solemn decree, commanding the people of his kingdom: "From this day forward, all hunting is forbidden, and no one shall covet the flesh of deer." He had the ropes cut and the deer lifted up, and settled gently upon level ground. The herd of deer, seeing their king, raised their voices to heaven in mournful cries, and came forward one by one to lick his wounds, and scattered to gather medicinal herbs, chewing them and applying them to his wounds. The human king, witnessing this, again wiped away his tears and said: "A ruler who nurtures his people as his own beloved children, and a people who cherish their ruler out of the same familial love in return — is this not what the way of a true ruler should be?" From that time on, he gave up killing and honored benevolence, and heaven itself blessed him for it; the kingdom prospered and the people flourished, and near and far alike praised his benevolence, and the people returned to him like a flowing river." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The deer king was I myself. The five hundred deer are now these five hundred monks. The human king was Ānanda." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the deer, named Sugandha, his fur of nine colors, a rarity such as the world had never seen, wandering along a riverbank. He saw a man drowning, crying out to heaven and begging for help; the deer, moved with pity, said: "Human life is hard to attain — should it be lost so easily? I would rather risk my own danger to save him." He swam to the man and said: "Do not be afraid — take hold of my antlers and climb upon my back, and I will save you now." The man did as he was told. Once the deer had brought him safely to shore, the man's breath had grown faint, nearly failing entirely. Once revived, the man, overjoyed, circled the deer three times, bowed his head, and said: "The way of humanity is hard to attain, and life itself is a most weighty thing — you, great one, risked your own danger to save this weighty life of mine; your grace surpasses heaven and earth themselves, and I shall never forget it to the end of my days. I beg to serve you as your own servant, to provide for whatever you may lack." The deer said: "Go your own way. To have your entire life depend on my own existence would be too great a burden for you. If anyone should ever ask after me, say that you have not seen me." The drowning man respectfully agreed: "Even at the cost of my own life, I will not betray this." "At that time, the king of that country was named Mo-yin-guang, of a pure and gentle disposition, nurturing his people with compassion. The king's principal queen, named He-zhi, dreamed she saw a deer king with nine-colored fur, his antlers surpassing even a rhinoceros's horn. Waking, she reported this: 'I wish to have this deer's hide and antlers made into a garment and ornaments — if I cannot obtain them, I shall surely die.' The king said, 'It shall be so.' The next morning he described the deer's appearance to his assembled ministers, and issued a proclamation offering a reward: whoever found it would be granted an entire county, and bowls filled to overflowing with gold and silver grain. Hearing of this offer, the rescued man was delighted, and thought: 'If I gain an entire county and bowls filled with gold and silver, that would bring me a lifetime of pleasure — what is the deer's own death to me?' He hurried to the palace and reported exactly what he had witnessed. In that very instant, his face broke out in leprous sores, his mouth filled with a rotten stench, and he said again: 'This deer possesses spiritual power — the king himself must lead his own troops to capture it.' The king then raised an army, crossed the river, and set out in search of it. "The deer had, at that time, formed a close friendship with a crow, and, while he lay sleeping, unaware that the king had come, the crow said: 'Friend! The king has come to capture you!' The deer, exhausted, did not hear, and the crow pecked at his ear, calling again: 'The king has come to kill you!' The deer, startled awake, saw the king with his bow drawn and aimed at him, and rushed forward at once, kneeling and bowing his head, saying: 'Heavenly King, grant this creature a moment's respite, that I may speak my humble thoughts.' The king, seeing the deer behave this way, ordered his arrow lowered. The deer said: 'The king has troubled himself, weighed down by his queen's own wish, to come in person — I cannot escape this now. But the Heavenly King dwells deep within his own palace — how could he have known where this humble creature dwelt?' The king pointed and said: 'The leprous man revealed it.' The deer said: 'I was searching for fine grass to eat when, from a distance, I saw a drowning man crying out to heaven and begging for help. Moved with pity for his desperate plight, I risked my own danger to save him. Once ashore, the man, overjoyed, bowed his head and said: "My life was about to be lost, and you, sir, have saved it — I beg to provide you with water and grass and serve as your servant for the rest of my days." I answered him: "Go your own way, wherever you please — take care never to tell anyone that you have seen me here."' The deer king said further: "I would rather rescue driftwood floating on the water and carry it to dry land than rescue a man who cannot be trusted to return a kindness. To plunder wealth and kill one's own lord — such wickedness might still be forgiven; but to receive a kindness and plot betrayal in return — such cruelty is beyond description.' The king, astonished, said: 'What manner of beast is this, holding within it such vast compassion, risking its own life to save another without counting the difficulty — this must surely be a heavenly being!' The king, moved by the deer's words, rejoiced and advanced in virtue, and commanded throughout his kingdom: 'From this day forward, let the deer eat freely as it wishes; whoever dares to harm it shall be punished with death.' The king returned, and when the queen heard that the king had released the deer, her fury shattered her own heart, and she died and fell into the hell of Mount Tai. Śakra, lord of the gods, hearing of the king's resolve to honor benevolence, praised him for it, and, to test his resolve further, transformed a multitude of deer-like creatures to fill the kingdom and devour its grain, so that every young shoot and crop was swept clean from the land. The common people brought complaints before the king. The king said: 'To preserve the kingdom through wickedness and deceit is not as good as losing it while keeping one's word.' Śakra said: 'The king's sincerity is now proven true.' He then sent the deer away, and the harvest grew tenfold, every poison and harm dissolved, and every affliction vanished of itself." The Buddha said to the monks: "The deer king of that time was I myself. The crow was Ānanda. The king was Śāriputra. The drowning man was Devadatta. The king's wife is now Devadatta's own wife." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the horses, named Qūyē, who always dwelt by the sea, ferrying across those cast adrift upon its waters. On the far shore of that sea dwelt lustful demon-women, very numerous, who, upon seeing merchants, would transform their surroundings into cities and dwellings, with gardens, music, food, and drink, and transform themselves into beautiful women of radiant loveliness, inviting the merchants in, entertaining them with wine and music. Bewitched by these demons, the merchants would all stay on as their consorts, and after a year had passed, the lustful demons, growing tired of them, would pierce their throats with an iron spike, drink their blood, eat their flesh, and suck out their marrow. The horse king, seeing from a distance how these demons devoured the merchants, wept for them. Flying across the sea to the far shore, he found some pounded, husked rice; once he had eaten and drunk his fill, he climbed a mountain and called out: 'Who wishes to be carried across?' He called this out three times. The merchants, hearing this, said with delight: 'We have long heard that the divine horse compassionately carries people across danger — now he has arrived!' They rushed to him joyfully, saying: 'Take pity on us and carry us across.' The horse said: 'If you leave now, the lustful demons will surely bring your own children and display them before you, wailing and pursuing after you. If any of you feels the pull of longing for them, once I am gone, the demons will surely pierce your throat once more with their iron spike, and drink your blood and devour your flesh. Keep your minds fixed only on what is good, and you may preserve your lives whole. Whoever wishes to return home, mount my back and take hold of my mane and tail, grip my head and neck as you are able, and help one another climb on — you will surely live to see your own families again.' Those merchants who trusted his words and followed them all preserved their lives and returned to see their own kin; those bewitched by lust, who believed the deceptive sorcery of the demons, were without exception devoured. Trusting the truth and departing from wickedness brings lasting peace in this very life." The Buddha said to the monks: "The horse king at that time was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the fish, and had ministers at his left and right, both of lofty conduct, always mindful of the Buddha's teaching without ever ceasing, even while eating or resting, sustaining themselves only on water-plants; he nurtured the smaller fish with compassion as though guarding his own body, and, following the tides in play, taught them the Buddha's precepts. Unaware, they were caught together in a fisherman's net, and the whole school of fish, great and small, was thrown into panic. The fish king, moved with compassion, said: "Be not afraid. With a single mind, hold the Buddha in your thoughts, and wish for the peace of all living beings; through this vast compassionate vow, heaven's protection will answer as swiftly as an echo — it will come to you at once. I will save you all." The fish king then thrust his own head down into the mud and, holding his tail up, lifted the net, and the whole school rushed out to freedom; every fish, having survived, drew close to him in devotion." The Buddha said to the monks: "The fish king at that time was I myself. The ministers at my left and right were Śāriputra and Mahāmaudgalyāyana." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the turtles, day and night diligently seeking skillful means to bring living beings' own spirits back to their original, formless nature. There was another turtle king dwelling together with him deep in the mountains, and together they observed lizards climbing a tree and throwing themselves down from it, again and again without rest. The bodhisattva divined from this: "This is an omen of danger to come — we should withdraw from this place at once, for our own good." But the other turtle king, obstinate and self-assured, would not heed this true word. The bodhisattva, with all his heart, worked to save those who followed him from this coming disaster. Ten days later, a herd of elephants came to rest beneath that same tree, and a lizard threw itself down and fell into an elephant's ear; the elephant, startled, cried out and bolted, and the whole herd stampeded wildly in every direction, trampling and killing the turtles there. The obstinate turtle king, in his fury, said: "You knew this would happen and did not tell me plainly — that I should die while you live — is this truly the conduct of a good heart? Through kalpa after kalpa I will pursue you, and wherever we meet, I will surely do you harm." The Buddha said to the monks: "The turtle who foresaw the danger and divined it well was I myself. The one who was obstinate and would not leave was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was the king of the parrots, with a following of three thousand. There were two parrots among them, whose strength surpassed the rest, who held bamboo stalks in their beaks to form a kind of carriage, upon which the king rode as they flew about in play. He always rode this bamboo-stalk carriage, surrounded above, below, before, behind, and on either side by five hundred parrots each, six groups in all totaling three thousand, offering him their finest treasures and entertaining him according to the season. The king reflected deeply to himself: "This constant noisy commotion allows no way to attain a settled and virtuous mind — I must resort to some skillful expedient." He feigned illness, refused to eat, and pretended to die, abandoning the crowd. His followers covered him with a mat and departed, each going their own way; the king then rose and sought food for himself. The parrots went to the parrot king of another mountain and said: "Our own king has died — we wish to become your subjects." That king said: "If your king has truly died, show me his body; if he is truly dead, I will accept you into my following." They returned to fetch the body, but it had vanished entirely; searching in every direction, they found their own king again, and all bowed before him in reverence, and resumed their former service and offerings. The king said: "I was not yet dead, and yet you abandoned me so readily. The buddhas' own clear teaching holds that in this world there is no one truly close to another — only the Way itself deserves to be honored. Renunciants shave their heads and beards as a mark of casting off the defilement of a disturbed will, and so give up such attachments to honor a conduct free of desire. Your constant clamor and noise, your wicked sounds disturbing my resolve — being alone, without companions, is what makes the equal virtue of the highest sages." Having said this, he flew off, and settled in a quiet and secluded place, giving up desire and inaction, contemplating the practice of concentration, until every defilement was entirely dissolved, and his heart became like heavenly gold." The Buddha said to the monks: "The parrot king of that time was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the doves, with a following of five hundred, soaring and seeking food within a royal garden. The king of that country, seeing them, ordered his herdsmen to spread nets and capture them; the whole flock, great and small, was left with none escaping, caged and confined, fed on fine rice and fattened meat, to be presented to the royal kitchen as delicacies. The dove king, seeing himself captured, held the Buddha in mind with a single-pointed heart, repenting his faults and giving rise to compassion, vowing: "May all captured beings be released, and may they swiftly escape the eight difficulties, as I now cannot." He said to the other doves: "Among the many precepts of the Buddha's scriptures, greed is named foremost; to pursue glory through greed is like a starving man drinking poison. The pleasure of getting one's own way lasts only as long as a flash of lightning, while the multitude of sufferings that follow endure for a hundred million ages. If you give up eating, your lives may yet be preserved whole." The others answered him: "Caught and confined within this cage, what hope is there left for us?" The king said: "To violate the Buddha's teaching and indulge one's own greedy desire — there is no one who does not lose their life through this." He himself gave up eating, and his body grew leaner day by day, until at last, through the bars of the cage, he was able to slip free; looking back at the others, he said: "Give up greed and abandon eating, and you may become as I am now." Having said this, he flew away." The Buddha said to the monks: "The dove king was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Thus the Buddha spoke the Sūtra of the Bee King. 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 his disciples: "You should diligently apply yourselves to hearing, reciting, and studying the teaching, and never let yourselves be covered by the hindrance of sloth. I recall that, countless kalpas ago, there was a buddha named Sarvābhibhū, the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the most perfectly awakened, who at that time was expounding the Dharma to countless gods and human beings. Among the assembly were two monks, one named Vīryamati and the other named Guṇanandin, who listened together to the teaching. Vīryamati, hearing the teaching, rejoiced, and at that very moment attained the stage of irreversibility, his spiritual powers complete; Guṇanandin, however, fell asleep without realizing it, and gained nothing at all. Vīryamati said to Guṇanandin: 'The Buddha is difficult to encounter, appearing only once in a hundred thousand million ages — one should diligently apply oneself as a foundation for benefiting others; how can you fall asleep? Sleep is the fault of the hindrance of torpor — you must exert yourself and keep a wakeful mind.' Guṇanandin, hearing this instruction, then began to walk in meditation, but, having only just begun walking among the Jeta trees, again fell into sleep while standing still; troubled and unable to steady himself in this way, he went to sit by a spring, meaning to meditate, but again fell asleep while seated. At that time Vīryamati, employing a skillful expedient, went to deliver him, transforming himself into a bee-king, flying at his eyes as though to sting him. Guṇanandin, startled, woke and sat up, fearful of this bee-king, but soon fell asleep again; the bee-king then flew beneath his arm and stung his chest and belly, and Guṇanandin, startled and his heart pounding with fright, no longer dared to sleep. "In the spring there grew flowers of every color, udumbara and pundarīka blossoms, each fresh and pure. The bee-king flew and settled upon a flower, feeding on its sweet nectar; Guṇanandin, sitting upright, watched it, fearing it might fly at him again, and so dared not sleep. Reflecting on the bee-king, he observed its very nature: the bee-king, feeding on the nectar, never left the flower itself; but after a while, the bee-king, growing drowsy, fell into the muddy water below; having bathed its own body there, it flew back and settled once more upon the flower. Guṇanandin then spoke this verse to the bee-king: 'You who feed on this sweet nectar, your body finds ease and peace — you should not then carry it home to share with your own wife and children. Why, then, do you fall into the mud, defiling your own body there? To act in such a way is without wisdom, ruining the very taste of the nectar. And this flower, too, is not a fitting place to dwell in for very long — when the sun sets, the flower closes again, and whoever seeks to leave then cannot. Only when the sun's light returns can one find one's way out again — the long night's weary darkness is a very great hardship indeed.' "The bee-king then answered Guṇanandin with this verse in return: 'The Buddha may be likened to sweet nectar — one should listen to him without ever growing weary or satisfied, and never fall into laziness, which benefits no one at all. The sea of birth and death across the five paths is like falling into the mud, bound up in craving and desire, with no wisdom, utterly confused. When the sun rises, the many flowers open — this is like the Buddha's own physical form; when the sun sets, the flower closes again — this is the World-Honored One's own final nirvāṇa. To encounter the age of the Tathāgata, one should exert oneself diligently, casting off the hindrance of sleepy torpor, and never assume the Buddha remains forever. The essential wisdom of this profound teaching is not a matter of outward appearance — the wise, seeing this, will recognize it as a skillful expedient. What a skillful expedient delivers is never a wasted effort, and this transformation I now show you is likewise for the sake of all beings.' "Guṇanandin, hearing this teaching, attained at once the forbearance of the unarising Dharma, understood the very root of all things, and attained dhāraṇī, and only then understood Vīryamati's own skillful means. From then on he walked in meditation alone without ever again succumbing to laziness, and at that very moment attained the stage of non-retrogression as well." The Buddha said to Ānanda: "Vīryamati at that time was I myself. Guṇanandin was Maitreya." The Buddha said to Ānanda further: "At that time, Maitreya and I listened to the teaching together, and Maitreya, falling asleep, alone gained nothing from it. Had I not, at that time, employed this skillful means to deliver him, Maitreya would still, even now, remain within the cycle of birth and death, not yet liberated. The virtue of even a single hearing can accomplish this much — how much more so for one who diligently cultivates the Way all day long? Whoever hears this teaching should always exert diligent effort, widely urging everyone to cast off the hindrance of drowsiness, and to build the very foundation of bright and luminous wisdom." When this teaching was spoken, countless people all gave rise to the unsurpassed, equal, and liberating resolve. This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of the Buddha's Smile at Three Things. "Long ago the bodhisattva was a lay devotee, taking refuge in the Three Jewels, his kindness vast and his benevolence universal, forgiving himself to relieve the multitude, holding to purity and never stealing, giving equally to all, chaste and pure, never lustful, regarding even a lustful glance within as a form of adultery, his trustworthiness as constant as the four seasons and as weighty as Mount Sumeru, abstaining entirely from wine, honoring filial devotion as though toward his own parents, and, on the first day of every month, observing the six fast days with tireless diligence. Wherever he was reborn, he encountered the Buddha, and his virtuous conduct grew ever more abundant, until at last he became the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right awakened one, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men, teaching and transforming beings as he traveled." At that time, passing through a marketplace, he saw an old man measuring out fish for sale by the peck, and, weeping and wailing, cried out: "Alas, O heaven above! What crime did my own son commit, that he should die so young?" His son had once made his living selling fish, and this had troubled the old man greatly. The Buddha, seeing this, smiled, and light of five colors shone from his mouth. Passing further through the marketplace, he saw a great pig wallowing and urinating in the road, and the Buddha smiled again. Ānanda, adjusting his robes, bowed his head and said: "You have smiled at this many times now, and I have had no proper occasion to ask you about it; but now that you have smiled again, there must surely be some teaching in it. I beg you to resolve our doubts, that it may serve as a bright model for those who come after." The World-Honored One said: "Ānanda, I smiled for three reasons. The first: observing that old man's folly, which is truly vast and pervasive — day after day he cast his net and destroyed the lives of the multitude, without a hair's breadth of compassion within him; and now that his own son has met with misfortune, he cries out to heaven in shock and terror, as though nothing had ever been his own doing. Such is the conduct of the lowest of fools, not the benevolence of heaven and earth, nor the forgiving compassion of the sages and worthy — this is why I smiled. In a past life, this man was a flying, wheel-turning emperor, whose accumulated blessing rose ever higher, but whose resolve grew proud and his conduct reckless — and now he has become a mere measure of fish for sale — this was the second reason. Never having contemplated the truths held by gods and humans, though he lived for eighty thousand million myriad kalpas, his mind fixed only on emptiness, unable to truly empty even that emptiness and return to his own original nature — now that his blessing is exhausted, he receives his punishment, confined within this very measuring basket — this was the third reason." Ānanda questioned him further: "A flying, wheel-turning emperor, reaching even the rank of the most honored of heavens, his virtue towering so high — why could he not escape this punishment?" The World-Honored One said: "Fortune and misfortune are not truly fixed things — how could either ever be permanent? One who dwells in honor and glory, giving through the four immeasurable virtues, and who awakens to the four truths of impermanence, may escape such calamity. But if one, relying on one's own high station, indulges one's heart in wickedness, then, once one's blessing is exhausted, punishment follows — this has been so since ancient times. Misfortune and fortune pursue their doer as surely as a shadow follows a form, or an echo answers a sound — how could rank, high or low, make any difference to this? In a past life, I myself was a lay devotee, and there was a neighbor who delighted in honoring ghosts and sorcery, consorting with the wicked, and, disbelieving that evil deeds bring grave consequence, would not be persuaded otherwise. On every fast day, I would go to the true and proper temple of the Buddha, to hear the assembled monks expound the pure teaching, taking this as the very root of virtue, warding off calamity and misfortune; but this man, given over to lechery and excess, would falsely claim to have urgent business elsewhere. Whenever I went to the Buddha's temple, he would go instead to disturb the true Way. From that time on, in whatever life I was born, I encountered the Buddha and heard the Dharma, and, sharing the resolve of the monastic community, my virtuous conduct grew ever more abundant, until at last I became 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, honored throughout the three realms, called the King of the Dharma. That neighbor, delighting in ghost-sorcery, harming the multitude of living beings, indulging in lechery, disordered by wine and unfilial, thought himself successful in his own way — but he turned instead through the three lower paths, suffering immeasurable bitterness. I have now become a buddha, while he has continued on as a mere stinking insect — this is why I smiled." The Buddha said to Ānanda: "Through many kalpas I received the scriptures and gathered their meaning, drawing close to and delighting in the community of monks, and thereby attained this towering state." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of the Boy Who Understood the Dharma at a Single Hearing. "Long ago there was a monk of diligent conduct, faithfully keeping the precepts from his youth, never once transgressing them, always upholding the pure conduct of a renunciant, dwelling in a monastery. What he recited was the Perfection of Wisdom, and the sound of his voice reciting the scripture was wondrous beyond compare, so that no one who heard it failed to rejoice. There was a boy, seven years old, herding cattle outside the city, who, hearing this monk's voice reciting the scripture from a distance, followed the sound to the monastery, bowed to the monk, and sat to one side, listening to the scripture's words. At that time the monk was expounding the fundamental nature of form, and, hearing it, the boy understood it at once, and rejoiced greatly. When the recitation of that passage was complete, the boy questioned the monk about it. The monk answered, but his answer did not satisfy the boy's own understanding; the boy then explained it himself instead, his meaning subtle and profound, unlike anything the monk had ever heard before. The monk, hearing this, was filled with delight and wonder, astonished that this boy possessed such wisdom, clearly no ordinary person. The boy then departed, returning to where his cattle were, but the calves he tended had scattered and run wild into the mountains; the boy followed their tracks, searching for them. At that time, he encountered a tiger, which killed the boy, and his life came to its end; his spirit was reborn at once in the household of a great elder, conceived as the child of his foremost wife. "While pregnant, the wife found herself able to recite the Perfection of Wisdom, from morning until evening without ever pausing. The household of that elder had never known the Dharma, and, astonished at this strange occurrence, thought the wife afflicted by some demonic illness, and questioned diviners and consulted every manner of exorcism, but no one could identify the cause. The elder, deeply troubled, could not understand what illness had befallen his wife, and the entire household, within and without, was filled with worry. At that time, the monk entered the city to beg for alms and came to the elder's own gate; hearing the sound of scripture recitation from a distance, his heart was filled with joy, and he stood at the gate for some time. The master of the house happened to come out, but, seeing the monk, made no gesture of respect toward him; the monk, puzzled, thought: 'Within this worthy household, the sound of scripture recitation is so wondrous — and yet this elder will not even speak with me.' He asked the elder: 'Who within your household recites such a profound scripture, its sound so subtle and wondrous?' The elder answered: 'My wife within has fallen ill with some demonic affliction, and day and night speaks wildly, her mouth never ceasing.' The monk then understood that this household did not know the Dharma, and answered: 'This is not a demonic illness at all, but the recitation of the Buddha's own great and honored scripture — I beg to be allowed to go in and see her for myself.' The elder said, 'Very well,' and led the monk inside to where his wife was. Seeing the monk, she bowed to him at once, and the monk spoke a blessing, saying, 'May you attain buddhahood swiftly,' and then engaged her in discussion of the scripture's teaching, questioning and probing its meaning back and forth, and the monk was filled with delight. The elder asked: 'What illness is this?' The monk answered: 'There is no illness at all — she is only expounding a profound scripture of very deep meaning; I suspect that the child this lady carries is himself a disciple of the Buddha.' The elder's mind was set at ease, and he kept the monk to share a meal with them. Once the meal was finished, the monk withdrew to the monastery, and told the other monks what he had witnessed: 'There is a certain elder's wife, pregnant, who is truly remarkable — she recites the honored scripture as fluently as flowing water, its sound wondrous and fine, and she explains its profound meaning with the greatest depth.' "Some days later, the elder again invited the monk, and this time invited the entire community of monks to come to his household, and prepared a full feast for them. When the appointed time came, they all arrived and took their seats; after the offering of water and food was complete, and the dedication of merit spoken, the wife came out and bowed to the assembled monks, and, sitting to one side, expounded the Dharma for them once more, resolving with complete thoroughness every doubt and difficulty the monks raised, and the assembled monks, overjoyed, withdrew in delight. When the months were complete, the wife gave birth to a son, without any of the usual defiling discharge of childbirth. As soon as the child was born, he joined his hands, knelt, and recited the Perfection of Wisdom. Once the birth was complete, the wife herself returned to her former state, remembering nothing further of what had occurred, as though waking from a dream with no memory of it at all. The elder again summoned the assembled monks. The monks all gathered and came to see the child, who recited the scripture exactly as before, without the slightest hesitation. The assembled monks, each observing this child's own origin with a single mind, could not determine its cause. The elder asked: 'What is the meaning of this?' The monk answered: 'This is truly a disciple of the Buddha — take care not to be alarmed or doubtful, but nurture and protect him well. This child, when grown, will become a teacher to all people, and we ourselves shall all receive his instruction.' "When the child grew to the age of seven, he had already mastered every subtle and profound teaching, complete in both the monastic and lay traditions, surpassing the multitude, his wisdom boundless. All the monks came to study under him, and wherever the scriptures contained errors or omissions, he corrected and completed them, supplying what was lacking. Wherever the child went, he opened and transformed those he met, causing them to give rise to the Mahāyāna resolve; within the elder's own household, high and low, five hundred people in all, followed the child's teaching, gave rise to the resolve of the Great Vehicle, and all took up the Buddha's work. Through the child's own teaching, in the city's markets and streets, eighty-four thousand people were opened and transformed, all giving rise to the unsurpassed, true and right resolve, and five hundred people became disciples of the Great Vehicle. The monks, hearing the child's own explanation of their remaining doubts, and those whose resolve was set on the Great Vehicle, all attained the pure Dharma-eye." The Buddha said to Ānanda: "The boy of that time was I myself. The monk of that time was the Buddha Kāśyapa. Thus, Ānanda, in that past life, I heard a chapter of the Mahāyāna teaching from a single monk, praised it with delight and understood it, and my heart, rejoicing, never wavered; I diligently applied myself and never forgot it, deeply recognizing my own past lives, and thereby brought myself to the unsurpassed, equal, and true awakening. The virtue of even a single hearing can accomplish this much — how much more so for one who cultivates the Way faithfully every single day?" This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of Giving One's Own Life to Save the Merchants. "Long ago the bodhisattva, together with five hundred merchants, went out onto the great sea to gather treasures. Having been at sea for several months, the treasures they had gathered filled their ship to its very limit. As they turned back toward their homeland, they encountered a violent storm, thunder and lightning shaking the earth, water-spirits gathering like clouds on every side as though encircling a city, fire flashing from their eyes, waves surging and crashing over the mountains. The crowd cried out in terror: 'We are going to die!' Their faces changed with fear, and, looking up to heaven, they begged for mercy. The bodhisattva, moved with sorrow, thought to himself: 'I have sought buddhahood only for the sake of living beings. What the sea-spirits despise most of all is a human corpse. To risk my own life to save the multitude is the very work a great being should esteem above all. If I do not offer my own blood to the sea, the sea-spirits' hatred will remain, and it seems this ship's passengers will never reach the shore.' He said to the assembled crowd: 'Take hold of one another's hands, and support my own body as well.' The crowd, following his instruction, held on, and the bodhisattva then drew his own blade and cut his own throat. The sea-spirits, satisfied by this, carried the ship to shore, and everyone was saved. "The ship's passengers, embracing his body, wept and cried out to heaven, saying: 'This must surely be a bodhisattva, not an ordinary man.' Throwing themselves down and crying out to heaven, they said: 'We would rather that our own lives had been lost here, than that this man of the highest virtue should have died.' Their words, utterly sincere, moved the gods above; Śakra, lord of the gods, witnessing the bodhisattva's vast compassion, a rarity such as the world had never seen, descended himself, and said: 'This bodhisattva of the utmost virtue is destined to become a sacred hero — I will now revive him.' He poured a divine, heavenly medicine into his mouth, and smeared it over his body as well, and the bodhisattva revived at once, rising suddenly to sit up and greet the others with relief. Śakra filled their ship with famous treasures, a thousand times what it had held before, and they returned at once to their own homeland; his nine classes of relatives, seeing him again, rejoiced without exception. He relieved the poor and needy, his grace reaching every living being, and expounded the Buddha's scriptures, opening and transforming the ignorant. The king of that country, honoring the bodhisattva's virtue, came to receive his pure transformation; the ruler was benevolent and his ministers loyal, and throughout the land the precepts were upheld, every household had its filial children, the country prospered and every poison was dispelled, the people lived in joyful contentment, and, when their lives ended, they were reborn in heaven, forever free of every suffering. The bodhisattva, through many kalpas of tireless diligence, at last attained buddhahood." The Buddha said to the monks: "The one who gave his own life to save the multitude was I myself. Śakra, lord of the gods, was Maitreya. The five hundred merchants are now these five hundred arhats seated here among us." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

Long ago the bodhisattva was the son of a widowed mother, who each morning visited the Buddha's shrine, casting aside wickedness to honor the truth, bowing his head to the monks, receiving the Buddha's own transforming influence, studying at dawn and reciting at dusk, his understanding growing brighter day by day, gathering knowledge of the many scriptures. He looked up to and longed for the filial conduct of the ancient sages with a sincerity like a starving man dreaming of food. The king who ruled the country he lived in was without the Way, greedy for wealth and given over to lust, treating the worthy lightly and the common people with contempt. The king, thinking of impermanence, reflected to himself: 'I have done much that is not good — when I die, will I not enter Mount Tai? Why not gather gold, that I might offer it as tribute to the King of Mount Tai?' And so he began collecting gold from his people, issuing a strict decree: 'Whoever conceals even a single ounce of gold shall be punished with death.' After three years of this, the people's gold was entirely exhausted. The king then, deceptively, issued a further proclamation: 'Whoever brings even a small amount of gold as tribute to the king shall be given the youngest princess in marriage, and granted the highest rank.' A boy said to his mother: 'Long ago I placed a single gold coin in my dead father's mouth, meaning to bribe the King of Mount Tai with it — it must still be there now; let us take it and offer it to the king.' The mother said, 'Very well,' and the boy took it and presented it. The king had him detained, and questioned him as to how he had obtained the gold. He answered: 'When my father died, I placed gold in his mouth, meaning to bribe the King of Mount Tai with it; hearing that the great king now offers rank in exchange for gold, I dug up his grave and opened his coffin to retrieve it.' The king asked: 'How many years has it been since your father died?' He answered, 'Eleven years.' The king said: 'Did your father never bribe the King of Mount Tai with it, then?' He answered: 'Among all the writings of every sage, only the Buddha's own teaching is true. The Buddha's scripture says: "Good deeds are pursued by blessing, and evil deeds are pursued by disaster; disaster and blessing follow their doer just as a shadow or an echo does." One cannot flee from one's own shadow by running, nor silence an echo by pressing against a mountain — how, then, could such a thing ever be obtained through bribery?' The king said, 'It could not.' He continued: 'This body is made up of the four elements; when life ends, the four elements separate, and the spirit passes on and transforms, following the course of its own past deeds — what use, then, would any bribe be? In a past life, the great king practiced giving and accumulated virtue, and this is why you now hold the throne; and if you now honor benevolence and let your grace reach far and wide, though you may not yet attain the Way in this life, you will surely become a king again in a life to come.' The king's heart was filled with joy, and he granted a great amnesty to every prisoner, and returned the gold he had confiscated." The Buddha said to the monks: "At that time, the king wished to use the people's remaining gold to cruelly harm the innocent; the bodhisattva, witnessing the people's mournful cries, wept for them, and risked his own life to confront this harsh policy, delivering the people from the very brink of disaster. The people, moved by his grace, honored the Buddha's own precepts, and the kingdom at last grew rich and fertile. The boy of that time was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of Devadatta Teaching People to Do Evil. "Long ago the bodhisattva held the rank of a heavenly king, holding fast to subtle conduct, his resolve advancing like a flowing stream; on every fast day, he rode his chariot through the four quarters of the world, proclaiming the Buddha's profound scriptures, opening and transforming living beings, dissolving their flaws and defilements, urging them to honor the Tathāgata, the worthy one, the true and right awakened one, the heaven of heavens, the king among all sages, the most honored of the teachings of the Way, that they might escape the very root of the three lower paths' suffering. Devadatta, too, was at that time a demon-king of the heavens, traveling through the four quarters of the world, teaching people to do evil and indulge their every desire, telling them there would be no punishment of Mount Tai to answer for it in either life. Traveling the roads, he encountered the bodhisattva, and asked him: 'What is it you are doing?' He answered: 'I teach the people to honor the Buddha, and cultivate the virtue of the highest sages.' Devadatta said: 'I teach the people to indulge their desires freely, with no calamity in either this life or the next; to labor one's resolve toward goodness brings no benefit to oneself.' The bodhisattva said: 'Get out of my way.' He answered: 'Your own goodness is like gold and silver; my own wickedness is like hardened steel. Hardened steel can cut through gold and silver, but gold and silver cannot cut through hardened steel — if you do not yield the road to me, I will cut you down.' Devadatta's wickedness grew to its fullness, and his calamity was accomplished, and he was reborn alive into Mount Tai. Now, a man who does evil, upon death, falls into one of the three lower paths without exception; but even within those three lower paths, whoever holds to goodness will still rise to heaven. Though one may dwell in the highest honor and glory, if one harbors deep-seated evil within, this is still not as good as holding even a single word of the Buddha's teaching while suffering in the three lower paths." The Buddha said to the monks: "The heavenly king who taught people to practice good was I myself. The demon-king who led people to do evil was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of Killing a Dragon to Save an Entire Kingdom. "Long ago the bodhisattva and his younger brother, sharing a single resolve, together studied the Way, looking up in admiration to the buddhas' own hard-to-attain conduct, reciting the scriptures and explaining their meaning to open and guide beings sunk in the six kinds of darkness, refining away their own inner defilements, dwelling in the stillness of concentration and insight. Whenever they heard of some country darkened in ignorance of the Three Jewels, they would go there at once to guide and transform its people, teaching them to honor the six perfections and their true and right conduct. There was at that time a great kingdom whose king delighted in the Way, but a host of wicked spirits led him astray, teaching him false and deceptive practices, and the whole kingdom, following his example, took up sorcery and wicked arts; wind and rain no longer came in their proper season, and strange omens followed one after another. The bodhisattva and his brother said to one another: 'In our own homeland, the transforming influence of the Three Jewels is already at work, the people hold the ten virtues within them, the ruler is benevolent and his ministers loyal, father and son observe righteousness, husband and wife hold to fidelity, and every household nearby has its own worthy member — whom, then, is left for us to transform there? But that other kingdom trusts in wicked sorcery, and a serpent-dragon dwells among them, devouring the common people, their mournful cries going unanswered. To set one's resolve on seeking buddhahood is precisely for the sake of beings such as these. We should guide them through the Way, persuading them with benevolence; but the dragon holds fierce poison within it, and this we must overcome.' The younger brother said: 'The Buddha's precepts hold killing to be the greatest of cruel violence, and preserving life to be the very foremost of benevolent conduct — how, then, shall we deal with this creature?' The elder brother said: 'To harm even a single person brings guilt lasting a hundred kalpas; but this dragon devours an entire kingdom, and I fear that even after kalpas as numerous as the sands of the Ganges, this calamity would still not be fully removed. To covet a fleeting moment's small advantage without regard for the burning, boiling torment of Mount Tai to come — my heart cannot bear this. The human path is hard to attain, and the Buddha's teaching is hard to hear; to remove this dragon and save the kingdom, guiding its people through the lofty conduct of the Three Jewels and the six perfections — though the immediate transgression may be as slight as a single hair, the resulting blessing will be as vast as heaven and earth. You transform into an elephant, and I will become a lion; even if it should cost us both our lives, without this the kingdom cannot be saved.' They bowed their heads to the ten directions and made this vow: 'Whatever unrest living beings suffer is my own fault. When I attain buddhahood in a future life, I will deliver every one of them.' The elephant went to where the dragon dwelt, and the lion mounted upon it. The dragon at once summoned its full might, lightning flashing and thunder crashing; the lion roared in response, and, in the clash between the dragon's fearsome spiritual power and the lion's own fierce might, the whole earth shook, and all three lives came to their end at once. The gods above praised this as good, sighing without exception at such benevolence. The two bodhisattvas, upon their deaths, were reborn in the fourth heaven. "The entire kingdom, its people's lives now preserved, embraced the bodies and cried out in mourning, saying: 'These must surely have been divine beings — who else could hold such benevolence as this?' Their disciples sought them out, and, seeing how their teacher, in his vast compassion, had given his own life to save the multitude, wept and praised his virtue. Each of them went forth to spread their teacher's own transforming teaching, and the king, together with his ministers and people, for the first time came to know of the Buddha, and throughout the land all said together: 'Could the Buddha's own benevolent transformation truly reach even this far?' They buried the two bodies with full honors, and the whole kingdom mourned together. The king then decreed: 'Whoever does not honor the Buddha's six perfections and ten virtues, but instead serves wicked spirits, shall be punished together with his entire family.' From that time on, monks numbering in the thousands walked shoulder to shoulder within the kingdom's borders, and the men and women of the country all became devout laypeople of lofty conduct; peace was established within all four borders, and at last great tranquility was achieved." The Buddha said to the monks: "The elder brother of that time was I myself. The younger brother was Maitreya. The poisonous dragon was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of Maitreya's Rebirth as a Woman. "Long ago the bodhisattva was Śakra, lord of the gods, his rank exalted and glorious, and yet his resolve always dwelt on the contemplation of impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and no-self. Seated, he reflected deeply; wandering, he taught and transformed others, grieving for the foolish and cherishing the wise, guiding them with wisdom, diligent and never resting. Seeing an old friend of his, reborn as a woman and married into a wealthy family, bewitched by wealth and beauty, unaware of impermanence, sitting in her shop within the marketplace, Śakra transformed himself into a merchant, pretending to have business there, and stood before the woman. The woman, delighted, sent her child running home to fetch a chair set aside for guests to sit upon; the merchant then gazed intently at the woman and smiled. The woman, holding herself to a strict propriety, thought it strange that the merchant should stand there smiling in such an improper way. The child, delayed in bringing the chair, was struck by his mother upon his return; the merchant again stood there smiling. Nearby, another child was spinning a drum-toy in play, and the merchant smiled at this as well. There was a man who was ill, whose son offered an ox in sacrifice to the spirits on his behalf; the merchant smiled at this too. There was a woman, carrying her child and wandering through the marketplace, whose child scratched her own cheek until blood ran down her neck; the merchant smiled once more. The wealthy man's wife then asked: 'Sir, you have stood before me smiling without cease — just now I struck my own child, and it seems my own conduct is the cause of your amusement — why do you smile?' The merchant said: 'You are my own dear friend — have you truly forgotten me now?' The woman, troubled, grew still more displeased, and found the merchant's words strange. The merchant continued: 'The reason I smiled when you struck your child is this: that child is your own father, whose spirit, through transformation, has become your son in this life — within a single lifetime, you fail even to recognize your own father, how much more so across a longer span of time? As for the child spinning the drum-toy — that toy was once an ox; when the ox died, its spirit returned and became the child of its former owner, and the household used the ox's own hide to make that very drum; the child, now playing and dancing with it in delight, does not know that this very hide was once his own former body — this is why I smiled. As for the sacrifice of an ox to seek healing for a sick father: to seek life for one by taking the life of another is a very grave inauspiciousness, like drinking poison in hopes of curing an illness. That father is himself soon to die, and, once dead, will become an ox, and, through life after life of being led to slaughter, will suffer disaster without end. Now, this very ox being offered in sacrifice, when its own life ends, its spirit will return and take on a human body, escaping this cycle of grief and suffering — this too is why I smiled. As for the child who scratched his mother's face — this child was, in a past life, the man's lesser wife, and the mother was, in that life, his principal wife; the daughter's own nature was deeply lustful, and she harbored jealousy in her heart, always treating the principal wife with cruelty. That lesser wife, holding her resentment and hatred, at the end of her life was reborn as the principal wife's own son, and has now come to take his revenge, clawing at her face and wounding her body — and so she dares not resent it, and this too is why I smiled. The hearts of living beings hold no constancy at all — what was once hated is now loved; what constancy, then, could there ever be? All of this is seen but not understood within a single lifetime — how much less understood across many kalpas? The scripture says: "Whoever is blocked by attachment to beauty is blind to the great Way; whoever listens exclusively to wicked sounds will never hear the echo of the Buddha's own voice." This is why I smiled. Worldly glory is like a flash of lightning, vanishing in an instant — you should awaken to impermanence, and not keep company with the foolish, but instead cultivate virtuous conduct and the wondrous practice of the six perfections. I will now return to my former dwelling, but I shall surely come again to your door another day.' Having said this, he vanished at once, and the woman returned home in a state of troubled unease. Observing fasts with solemn devotion, longing and reverent, word of this spread throughout the entire kingdom, and there was no one, from the king down to his officials, who did not honor and respect her for it. "The merchant later did indeed appear at her gate, his appearance ugly and his clothing worn, and said: 'My friend is within — call her out to me.' The gatekeeper went in to report this, describing his appearance exactly. The woman came out and said: 'You are not my friend.' Śakra laughed and said: 'You do not recognize me even when I merely change my form and clothing — how much less, then, would you recognize me across different lifetimes, casting off one form to take on another?' He said further: 'Be diligent in honoring the Buddha — the Buddha is difficult to encounter in this world, and a monk of lofty conduct is difficult to find and serve; life hangs by the span of a single breath — do not let yourself be led astray by worldly delusion.' Having said this, he vanished. The whole kingdom rejoiced and marveled at this, and each took up the lofty and wondrous practice of the six perfections." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The woman of that time is now Maitreya. Śakra, lord of the gods, was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of the Woman's Petition. "Long ago the bodhisattva was born as a woman, whose husband, by nature, was wicked, foolish, and consumed by jealousy; whenever he traveled on business, he entrusted his wife to the care of a neighboring widow, who herself honored the Buddha's precepts and practiced as a devout laywoman. At that time the Buddha entered the country, and the king, together with his ministers and people, all received the precepts; the widowed mother, hearing the scripture, returned and told the wife of it. The wife, delighted, exclaimed: 'This is truly the unsurpassed, true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened one!' Hearing of the Buddha from the widow, she bowed her head from afar in reverence. On a fast day, the widow said: 'Shall we go to hear his teaching?' The wife said with delight, 'Yes.' But as they set out toward the edge of the city, she suddenly remembered her husband's jealous nature, and, troubled, lost her earlier joy, and, returning home, reproached herself: 'Is my own misfortune too heavy to overcome?' The widow returned and told her: 'Gods, dragons, spirits, kings, ministers, and people all came to hear the teaching — some attained one of the four fruits of a monk's path, and some received the prediction of bodhisattvahood. The Buddha is difficult to encounter, and his teaching is difficult to hear — will you truly turn back now?' The wife, hearing of the Buddha's virtue, wept, and told her fully of her husband's jealous nature. The widow said: 'Try going, just this once.' The wife said, 'I will do so respectfully.' The next day she followed the widow and saw the Buddha, prostrating herself fully on the ground, and, withdrawing to stand, stilled her mind, gazing upon the Buddha's fine marks, and, contemplating the Buddha's pure nature, recognized him truly as the honored one of heaven. The Buddha asked the woman: 'What is your wish in coming here?' She bowed her head and answered: 'I have heard that the Buddha is the unsurpassed, true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men, his virtue as vast as the sands of the Ganges, his wisdom as boundless as empty space, possessing the six spiritual powers and the four means of understanding and attaining complete wisdom — moved by your power, I have come to petition the honored one; I beg the Buddha to take pity on me.' The World-Honored One told her: 'The Buddha protects all beings equally — ask freely for whatever you wish.' The woman bowed her head and said: 'People in this world who have not yet attained their own original nature all form pairs out of desire; I wish that in every life to come, I may be paired with a spouse of the utmost virtue, sharing the same resolve, free of any jealous conduct between us. Second, I wish that my own bodily, verbal, and mental conduct may be upright, surpassing that of the world. Third, I wish that in every life to come, I may reverently honor the Three Jewels, my mind's defilements dissolving day by day, advancing on the Way without ever growing weary, protected always by the buddhas, so that no wicked force can obstruct me, until at last I attain complete wisdom and relieve living beings from their hardships.' The Blessed One sighed and said: 'Excellent, excellent! May you attain exactly this.' The wife, overjoyed, bowed her head, and returned home to her former dwelling. Her husband, returning from his trading journey, traveled by boat upon the water, and was due to arrive on that very day. Śakra, lord of the gods, witnessing the wife's lofty conduct, her vow unmatched by any other, helped her rejoice and praised her as good, raising wind and rain to delay her husband's boat, so that he did not arrive until the following day. "When the wife's life later came to its end, her spirit was reborn into a household that held the Way, her beauty radiant before the world; when she grew to maturity, she was married to a Confucian scholar of the kingdom, and the kingdom praised her as a woman of the highest worth. At that time her husband went out to sea to gather treasures, wishing to relieve the kingdom's poor, and the wife, remaining at home, guarded herself with proper ritual, as a city guards against invaders, and the kingdom's queen, consorts, ministers, and their wives and concubines all looked up to her as a model, coming to her gate in crowds to receive instruction in her own virtuous conduct. One night, waking from sleep, the wife reflected on the impermanence of the world: 'Glory and wealth are like an illusion — who could ever hold onto them forever? This body is like a leaking boat carrying my own spirit, like reaching for the moon's reflection while gazing at a heavenly treasure. What benefit is there to myself in wearing out my mind and exhausting my body over such things? Dreams and illusions are both empty, and the glory of gods and of this world return in just the same way. Tomorrow morning I shall seek out the unsurpassed, true and right one, the heaven of heavens, to be my own teacher.' Rising the next morning, she saw a stone stūpa standing in her own courtyard, the Buddha's image gleaming gold, scriptures carved and inscribed upon its walls, praising the Buddha as the teacher of every sage, walking alone through the three realms. The wife, delighted, exclaimed: 'Is this not the Tathāgata, the worthy one, the true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened one?' She prostrated herself fully on the ground, circled the shrine three times, scattered flowers, burned incense, lit lamps, and hung silk banners, reverent morning and night, bowing her head in respectful worship. The queen and the women of the kingdom sought to receive her pure influence, casting aside wickedness to honor the truth. A wicked man in the neighborhood, a merchant, met her husband upon his return, and said: 'Your wife has built some strange shrine, an empty temple to some ghost, burning incense morning and night, chanting curses and practicing sorcery, wishing for your death — this is most inauspicious.' Her husband returned home, and the wife told him: 'One night I awoke and reflected on the impermanence of the world, and the next morning I saw a sacred spirit, an unsurpassed and truly wondrous image, standing in the courtyard; I now honor and serve it, burning incense, lighting lamps, hanging banners, and offering flowers, bowing in reverence morning and night, and have taken refuge in it of my own accord. You too should honor it, and it will surely accord with the sacred principle.' Her husband, overjoyed, honored it with a single, reverent heart, and the people of the kingdom, high and low, all received this influence in the same way, and it continued thus for eighty-four thousand years and more." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The woman of that time was I myself. The husband of that time is now Maitreya. The widowed mother was Śāriputra. The wicked neighbor was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.

The Sūtra of Dīpaṃkara's Prediction. "Long ago the bodhisattva was born as a woman, widowed young and holding to her chastity, taking refuge in the Three Jewels, dwelling in poverty and yet delighting in the Way, diligent and untiring, casting off wicked profit, and making her living by selling oil. There was, at that time, a monk advanced in years, his resolve set on lofty conduct, with no time for scholarly learning, and those inwardly wanting in understanding called him ignorant. Though his reverence and worship were uneven, and his practice never quite reached completion, he offered sesame oil, obtained through begging, before the Buddha's image without fail; the widow, seeing this, contributed her own offering day after day without ever missing one. A certain fasting monk, bowing his head at the Buddha's feet and joining his hands, questioned him: 'This old, fasting monk, though his understanding is somewhat lacking, holds fully to the precepts and his conduct is lofty, and offers lamps in devotion — what blessing will he obtain in the future?' The World-Honored One sighed and said: 'A fine question indeed! This old, fasting monk will, after countless kalpas, become the Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened, with a radiant light at his neck, and will guide the three realms, delivering living beings beyond all number.' The widow, hearing this, hurried to the Buddha, bowed her head, and said: 'The oil offered by that fasting monk for his lamp was in fact contributed by myself — will I too attain the unsurpassed, true and right Way, and guide living beings back to their own original nature, so that gods, humans, spirits, and dragons may all find peace and ease? I beg only that you take pity on me, and grant me a prediction as well.' The Buddha said to the woman: 'A woman's body cannot become a buddha, a pratyekabuddha, Brahmā, Śakra, a demon-king of the heavens, or a flying, wheel-turning emperor — these towering and exalted states cannot be attained in a woman's body. If you wish to attain them, you must cast off this defiled form and receive instead a pure body.' The woman bowed her head and said: 'I will cast it off now.' Returning home, she bathed herself in purity, and, bowing from afar, said: 'This body is but a composite of the four elements — it is not something I can keep forever.' Climbing to a high tower, she made this vow: 'I now give this defiled body to relieve the hunger and thirst of living beings; I beg to be granted a man's own body, and to receive the prediction of buddhahood. If there are living beings in some future age of turbidity, blind and confused, turning their backs on the truth to follow what is false, unaware of the Buddha, I will deliver them then in that very world.' She then threw herself down from the height, and all who witnessed it trembled with dread. The Buddha, knowing her utmost sincerity, caused the ground to soften like a heavenly cushion, so that her body came to no harm, and transformed her at once into a man; his joy was beyond measure. He hurried to the Buddha, and, leaping with joy, said: 'Having received the World-Honored One's own grace, I have now obtained a pure body. I beg only that you take pity on me, and grant me the honored prediction.' The Buddha said in praise: 'Your courage is a rarity such as the world has seldom seen — you shall surely attain buddhahood, and need have no further doubt. Because you offered a lamp to this fasting monk, when he attains buddhahood, he shall bestow upon you your own title.' Gods, humans, spirits, and dragons, hearing that he would become a buddha, all came to bow and offer their congratulations, and, returning to their own dwellings, sighed in praise and each redoubled their own diligence. At that time, the number of living beings thereby encouraged and inspired was beyond all counting." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The elderly monk of that time was the Buddha Dīpaṃkara. The widow was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through his sharp and eager resolve, practiced the boundless perfection of diligence.