Fascicle 8

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī, together with twelve hundred and fifty monks, and ten thousand bodhisattvas sitting together with him. The foremost disciple, Śāriputra, came forward, bowed his head, and, kneeling, said: "What merit did Chandaka hold in his past lives? The bodhisattva, while still in his household, was destined to become a flying, wheel-turning emperor, and yet Chandaka urged him to give up the kingdom and enter the mountains to study the Way, bringing him at last to buddhahood and the deliverance of living beings — his towering achievement reaching all the way to final liberation. I beg the World-Honored One to reveal its origin." The Buddha said in praise: "Excellent, excellent! Śāriputra's question is very good indeed! Chandaka's merit, accumulated across many lifetimes, is beyond measure — listen closely, and I will tell you of it." They answered, "We will." The Buddha said: "Long ago I was a bodhisattva in the country of Nihārapa. Its king, hearing that some ascend to heaven through the Way, and others through worshipping a spirit-shrine, had, since his own childhood, always wished to ascend to heaven but did not know the means to do so. The kingdom held more than forty thousand brahmin ascetics, and the king said to them: 'I wish to ascend to heaven — by what method might this be done?' The elders answered: 'An excellent question indeed! Does the king wish to ascend to heaven in this very body, or only in spirit?' The king said, 'I wish to ascend seated exactly as I am now.' They said: 'You must hold a great sacrificial rite, and this may be attained.' The king, overjoyed beyond measure, gave them two thousand catties of gold and silver. The brahmins, having obtained this treasure, returned and entertained themselves lavishly, and, once it was exhausted, deliberated together: 'Let the king gather a hundred boys and a hundred girls, each of the most radiant beauty, together with a hundred each of elephants, horses, and every kind of animal; let us first feast ourselves, then slaughter the people and animals, and use their bones and flesh to build a stairway to heaven.' They reported this to the king, and he said, 'Excellent!' He at once commanded his outer ministers to prepare everything swiftly as instructed, and had them all confined in prison; the sound of weeping filled the roads, and the people of the kingdom said together: 'For a king to turn his back on the Buddha's own true transformation and instead raise up such wicked sorcery as this is the very foundation of a kingdom's ruin.' The brahmins said further: 'Should the king kill these living beings and still fail to ascend to heaven, we ourselves will surely have our own corpses hung up in the marketplace for it.' They deliberated again: 'Within the Fragrant Mountains dwells a heavenly king's own musician-maiden, called a spirit in human form, a sacred being difficult to obtain — let the king seek her out instead. If he cannot obtain her, this whole affair may cease, and we ourselves will bear no further blame.' They went again to the king and said: 'Within the Fragrant Mountains there is a heavenly musician-maiden; if you can obtain her blood to mix with that of the people and animals for your stairway, you will then ascend to heaven.' The king, delighted once more, said: 'Why did you not tell me this from the start? It has already been four months, and only now do you speak of this?' They answered, explaining the full method of their art. The king had the people of the kingdom gather together, and gave out lavish rewards, with wine and music prepared in full: 'Who among you today can obtain this spirit-maiden?' Among the people, one who knew of her said: 'In the seventh mountain there dwell two ascetics, one named Dujali and the other Youben — they know where this spirit-maiden may be found.' The king said, 'Summon them.' The messenger, following this command, brought the two ascetics back within a few days. The king, delighted, held a feast of wine for seven days, and said: 'If you obtain this spirit-maiden for me, I will ascend to heaven and give you my entire kingdom in reward.' They answered, 'We will exert ourselves to the utmost.' Withdrawing, they searched for more than two months, crossing seven ranges of mountains, until they reached the Fragrant Mountains, where they beheld a great pool of water, thirty leagues across. Beside the pool, on level ground, stood a great jeweled city, eighty leagues in both breadth and height, its jeweled trees surrounding the city and shining brilliantly throughout the land; in the pool grew lotus flowers with a thousand petals each, radiant in five colors, each reflecting the light of the others, and birds of rare kinds sang out in harmony. The city had seven gates, its towers and palace halls rising one after another, banners fluttering brightly, bells and chimes sounding in five tones, and the heavenly king himself sat within, entertained by his musicians. After seven days, Śakra came out to wander in play, bathing in the pool; once his pleasure was complete, he was due to return to heaven. Beside the pool, beneath a tree, there dwelt a sacred brahmin ascetic, pure within and without, who had attained the brightness of the five spiritual powers. The two ascetics came forward, bowed their heads, and said: 'This music is beyond the world — for whom is it played?' He answered: 'The daughters of Māra, the demon-king, more than a thousand of them, are wandering here in play; they are about to come and pay their reverent respects — you should withdraw at once.' Receiving this instruction, they withdrew and hid themselves, and deliberated: 'Given this ascetic's own spiritual authority over the Way, by what means shall we obtain the heavenly maiden? We must resort to sorcery — knotting grass, chanting incantations, and casting it into the water, so that the ascetic's own body grows heavy and the heavenly maiden's own spirit-power fails.' They did exactly this, knotting grass and casting it into the water while chanting their sorcery. Śakra then returned to heaven, and every heavenly being departed with him, but this heavenly maiden alone was unable to take flight. The two ascetics entered the water, removed her upper garment, and bound her with it. The maiden asked, 'What do you intend to do with me?' They answered exactly as described above. Using bamboo as a raft, they traveled for seven days until they reached the king's own country. Arriving at the palace, she was overcome with dread; the king, delighted, presented her before him and prepared a feast, and comforted the two ascetics, saying: 'Now that I shall ascend to heaven, I give you this entire kingdom in reward.' "The king's eldest son, named Nirloshi, had become the king of another country, and his own crown prince was named Surya, from his very beginnings compassionate and benevolent, harmonious and radiant in understanding, able from the start to perceive the future of living beings in the world, missing nothing, however hidden or subtle, never letting go of the lofty conduct of the six perfections, and had vowed of his own accord to seek the state of Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right awakened one, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men, the well-gone one, honored by the world, arriving at his own original, formless nature. The king said: 'I am about to ascend to heaven — summon my grandson to take his leave of me.' The grandson arrived, bowed his head, received his instruction, and withdrew to his seat. The king asked, 'Are your own family and the people at peace?' He answered, 'We have received your grace and are all at peace.' The grandson then said: 'If I do not ask for this heavenly maiden as my own wife, the king will surely kill her instead' — and had this conveyed through an intermediary. The king said: 'I intend to use her blood as the very stairway to heaven.' The grandson at once refused to eat, retired to his bed in displeasure. The king, fearing he might lose him, then gave him the maiden as his wife instead; within and without, all rejoiced, and every trouble was dispelled. "After four months had passed, the brahmins spoke again: 'A pit should now be dug and filled with the slaughter of every kind of animal, and the spirit-maiden's own blood smeared upon it, and an auspicious day chosen to offer this sacrifice to heaven.' The king said, 'Excellent!' and commanded the elders of the kingdom, his officials, and the common people: 'This sacrifice must now be held.' The royal grandson, hearing this, was struck with displeasure, and challenged the brahmins: 'From what sacred scripture does this rite of sacrifice derive?' They answered: 'Through such a sacrifice as this, one is destined to ascend to heaven.' The royal grandson challenged them further: 'To kill is to destroy the lives of living beings, and to destroy the lives of living beings is the very foremost of rebellious evils, whose calamity knows no end; the spirit, in its transformation, is thereby turned into mutual resentment, and blade and poison harm one another life after life without rest, falling at death into Mount Tai, burned, boiled, roasted, and cut apart, every torment inflicted in full; emerging from this, one may become an animal, dying again beneath the blade; and if one later becomes human again, one bears the mark of having one's own corpse mutilated, all stemming from this very cause of cruel killing. How could such violent conduct as this ever lead to ascending to heaven?' The brahmins answered: 'You are but newly come to your own understanding — how could your wisdom ever match ours, that you should challenge us in this way?' The royal grandson said: 'In a past life, I was born into a brahmin family for five hundred consecutive lifetimes, and studied your own scriptures of the Way, holding purity and truth as foremost. Your own cunning falsehood — how could it ever accord with the true meaning of those very scriptures?' The brahmins said: 'If you truly know our own teaching, why do you not state it plainly?' The royal grandson then explained in full: 'The proper model of a brahmin holds the sagely aim of purity as its very utmost — and yet you are corrupt and defiled, cruel and gluttonous, falsely holding a wicked sacrifice to kill people and animals alike, drinking wine and indulging in lechery, deceiving your superior and impoverishing the people, causing the people to turn their backs on the Buddha, defy the Dharma, distance themselves from the worthy and refuse to honor them, exhausting their wealth to serve ghosts while their own kin go hungry and cold — how could this ever accord with the lofty conduct of a true renunciant following the sagely aim?' The brahmins, ashamed, bowed their heads and withdrew. "The grandson then explained to the king, his grandfather, the utmost sincere teaching of the unsurpassed, true and right, most perfectly awakened one: 'Whoever wishes to ascend to heaven should take refuge in the Three Jewels, awaken to the four truths of impermanence, cut off entirely all stinginess and greed, plant a resolve of pure conduct, forgetting oneself to relieve the multitude, one's grace reaching every living being — this is the first. Show compassion for living beings, forgive oneself to relieve others, hold always to contentment, taking nothing that is not given, guarding chastity without excess, being trustworthy and never deceiving; wine is a poison that brings confusion, and filial devotion is destroyed by it — honor the ten virtues, and guide one's own family with rectitude — this is the second. Endure the insults of living beings, grieve for those who are mad with delusion, meeting poison with compassion in return, relieving without harming, guiding them with the Three Jewels, and, once they understand, helping them further in their joy, nurturing and protecting them equally, one's grace matching heaven and earth themselves — this is the third. Advance one's resolve with sharp diligence, striving upward toward lofty conduct — this is the fourth. Cast aside wickedness and remove defilement, one's resolve as still as emptiness itself — this is the fifth. Study broadly without limit, seeking complete wisdom — this is the sixth. Holding fast to this vast virtue from beginning to end without fault, one may become the very Dharma-king of the three realms — how, then, could ascending to heaven be difficult? But if one turns against the Buddha's own compassionate teaching, honoring instead such fierce cruelty, destroying the lives of living beings, indulging in lustful pleasure and wicked sacrifice — in this very life one is abandoned by heaven, and at death falls into the three lower paths, mutilated and slaughtered in turn, receiving calamity without end. To hope that such fundamental evil as this could lead to ascending to heaven is like one who defies the king's own command and yet hopes to attain high office.' The king said: 'Excellent! Truly so!' He opened the prisons and granted a great amnesty, cut off entirely every wicked practice, and gave the entire kingdom's treasury over to his grandson to establish his own virtue. The royal grandson took this treasure and provided fully for the poor, giving alms for seven days without any lack or shortage. After this giving, he urged the people to keep the precepts, and throughout the land, moved by his grace, there was no one who did not honor and follow this. Gods, dragons, and spirits all praised this as good, and rained down famous treasures, fine silks, and every kind of grain. Neighboring countries, longing for his virtue, came to submit to him, just as countless rivers flow into the sea. "The royal grandson, together with his wife, took leave of his family and withdrew, returning to his own kingdom, where he shut himself away from state affairs to indulge in pleasure with her. His assembled ministers, hearing of this, said: 'If his wife is not removed, the affairs of state will soon fall into ruin.' His father the king said: 'It was my own father, the grandfather king, who gave her to him in marriage — how could she be removed?' He summoned her instead and had her confined. The wife, hearing this, was struck with shame, and flew back at once to her former dwelling in the seventh mountain, and, seeing Youben and the others there, told them: 'When my husband comes, send him on to me. Leave a golden ring as a token.' The father, hearing that his wife had departed, sent his son back to the kingdom, but, not finding his wife there, he wept in sorrow. The palace's guardian spirit said: 'Do not grieve — I will show you the way. Your wife is in the seventh mountain; go quickly, and you may reach her.' The royal grandson, hearing this, put on his pearl-adorned robe, girded his sword, and took up his bow, his garments shining forty leagues around. The next day he reached the seventh mountain, and saw where his wife had broken a tree branch and thrown it to the ground as a marker; going forward, he met the two ascetics and asked, 'Has my wife passed this way?' They said, 'She has,' and gave him the ring, and accompanied him further. Using a tree as a bridge, they crossed a small stream and came to the eighth mountain, where they found a brahmin ascetic of the fourth absorption; the royal grandson prostrated himself fully on the ground and bowed his head in reverence, saying: 'Has my wife passed this way?' He answered: 'She has passed here. Sit a while, and I will show you where she is.' At that time Śakra, lord of the gods, transformed himself into a macaque, its spiritual power shaking the mountain, and the royal grandson was struck with great fear. The ascetic said: 'Do not be afraid — he has come to make an offering.' The macaque, seeing the three ascetics, hesitated and would not approach. The ascetic said, 'Come forward,' and the macaque came forward and offered fruit, which the ascetic accepted. The four of them shared it together, and the ascetic said to the macaque: 'Take these three men to the dwelling of the spirit in human form.' The macaque asked, 'Who are these men, that they should be brought to ascend to heaven?' The ascetic answered: 'The crown prince of a king, foremost among bodhisattvas, is destined to become 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; living beings shall receive his grace and return to their own original, formless nature.' The macaque exclaimed in praise: 'Excellent! When this bodhisattva attains buddhahood, I wish to be reborn as his horse.' Of the two men, Youben, one wished to become his servant, and the other wished to attain arhatship. The bodhisattva said, 'Very good!' and they ascended together toward heaven. Along the way there were five hundred pratyekabuddhas, and they all passed and bowed their heads to them; the bodhisattva sent the macaque to gather flowers and scatter them upon all the buddhas, making this vow: 'May I swiftly attain true and complete awakening, and guide living beings to extinguish birth and death and return their spirits to their own original nature.' The three men likewise made the same vow as before, and, bowing their heads to all the buddhas, went on their way. "Arriving outside the gate of the city of the spirit in human form, the macaque bowed his head and withdrew, and the three men sat together. At that time a servant girl came out to draw water, and the bodhisattva asked her, 'What is this water for?' She answered, 'To bathe the king's daughter.' The bodhisattva took off his ring and dropped it into the water; the heavenly maiden, seeing the ring, stopped bathing at once, and told her parent: 'My husband is seeking me — he has now arrived here.' Her parent, named Toumo, delighted, hurried out and met with him. The bodhisattva bowed his head in the proper ceremony of a son-in-law, and the two ascetics bowed their heads and withdrew. The king invited him within, and personally gave him his daughter in marriage, attended by more than a thousand serving women, entertained by heavenly music. He remained there for seven years, tending to his in-laws, but, speaking of them with a choked voice, he took his leave to return to his own kingdom. The heavenly king said: 'I have now entrusted this entire kingdom to you, my son — why do you wish to leave?' The bodhisattva declined again exactly as before. The king said, 'Stay just seven more days, and enjoy every pleasure to the full.' After these seven days, a great spirit-king came before the heavenly king to offer congratulations: 'Now that your lost daughter has returned, you have also gained a sacred son-in-law!' The heavenly king said: 'My daughter, humble as she is, has obtained a sacred hero as her husband, who now longs to return and care for his own parents — I trouble you to see him off.' The spirit-king respectfully agreed, and, using heavenly treasures, built a seven-tiered palace hall, its many treasures and heavenly music a rarity such as the world had never seen, and the spirit-king personally escorted him back to his own homeland, bowing his head before withdrawing. "The bodhisattva, seeing his own parents again, spoke to them in full reverence, and the grandfather king, overjoyed, abdicated the throne to him. Heavenly maidens, spirits, and dragons all without exception praised this as good. He granted a great amnesty for every crime, emptied the kingdom's treasury in giving, relieving the people of all four directions, down to every living being, according to their own hearts' desire. Living beings leapt for joy without exception, praising the Buddha's own benevolent transformation as surpassing even heaven and earth; the people of all eight directions, longing for his grace, came into the kingdom, as an infant child relies upon its own loving mother. When the grandfather king's life came to its end, he was reborn in heaven." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The royal grandson was I myself. The ascetic of the fourth absorption was Śāriputra. Youben is now Maudgalyāyana. Dujali is now Chandaka. Śakra, lord of the gods, was Vajrapāṇi. The father-king was Kāśyapa. The grandfather-king is now King Śuddhodana. The mother is my own mother, Māyā. The wife is Yaśodharā. Through many lifetimes the bodhisattva, through the four immeasurable virtues and vast compassion, and through the six boundless perfections, has relieved living beings beyond all reckoning." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, the bodhisattvas and the four classes of disciples, the gods, dragons, spirits, and every other divine being, rejoiced without exception, and, bowing in reverence, departed.

The Sūtra of the King of Cheluo. "Long ago the principal queen of the king of Cheluo had no heir, and the king, deeply grieved, commanded her: 'Return to your own family, and seek out some method to bear an heir; if you fail, I will not hold it against you.' The queen, weeping, took her leave, and, resolved to give up her own life, threw herself down among the dangerous cliffs of the mountains, wandering into the forest wilderness. Śakra, lord of the gods, moved with feeling, thought: 'This king's own principal queen was, in a former life, my own elder sister — and now, without an heir, she has cast herself into the danger of the mountains.' Struck with sorrow and pity for her, he descended at once, and, filling a vessel with fruit, gave it to her, saying: 'Sister, eat this fruit, and you will surely bear a sacred heir, destined to become a hero of the world. If the king ever doubts this, show him this vessel — it is a sacred vessel of the heavenly king, the very highest proof.' The queen, facing heaven, ate the fruit, and suddenly Śakra was nowhere to be seen. As soon as she conceived, her body grew heavy, and she returned to the palace to see the king, and told him everything truthfully. When her time was full, she gave birth to a son, whose appearance was extremely coarse, a rarity such as the world had seldom seen. From the age of a young child, he was intelligent and broadly capable, his wisdom and strategy without equal, his strength able to overpower an elephant, able to seize a flying hawk in flight, and his voice, when raised, resounded like a lion's roar; his fame spread far and wide, and the eight directions marveled at him. The king arranged his marriage to the daughter of a neighboring kingdom, named Moonlight, whose beauty and grace were matched only by a heavenly maiden, every fine quality complete in her. He had, in addition, seven younger brothers, each likewise handsome. The queen, fearing Moonlight's own reaction upon seeing the crown prince's coarse appearance, deceived her, saying: 'It is the old custom of our kingdom that husband and wife of a household do not see each other in the light of day — this is a matter of the gravest propriety. The princess must not fail in this observance.' She answered, 'I respectfully agree, and dare not disregard this honored teaching.' From that time on, the prince came and went without ever once being seen by her. He reflected deeply to himself: 'Our own kingdom has long been at war with seven neighboring kingdoms, our strength strained without rest, and the countless people cry out in distress. I must find some expedient to bring peace.' He thought further: 'My own body is extremely ugly — once my wife sees me, she will surely leave; and if she leaves, the whole world will find peace, and the countless people will find rest.' He then, with delight, asked the queen if he might see his wife just once, to observe her appearance. The queen said: 'Your own form is ugly, while her beauty is radiant, equal to a heavenly maiden; once she sees you, she will leave at once, and you will remain a widower forever.' The prince pleaded further, and the queen, moved to pity, at last granted his wish. Bringing his wife to see the horses, the prince disguised himself as a stable-hand; his wife, seeing him, asked, 'Is that stable-hand ugly?' The queen answered, 'That is a groom left over from the former king's own household.' Later, bringing her to see the elephants, his wife saw him again, and, growing suspicious, thought: 'Wherever I go, I keep seeing this same man — could this be the crown prince himself?' The wife said, 'I wish to see the crown prince's own radiant countenance.' The queen, as an expedient, had his younger brothers go out to tour the kingdom, with the crown prince's own officials and guards accompanying them in escort. The queen and his wife watched this, and her heart felt a slight relief. Later, entering the garden, the prince climbed a tree and dropped fruit down onto her back; his wife said, 'This must surely be the crown prince.' That night, watching for him to fall asleep, she quietly lit a torch and examined his form, and, terrified, fled home at once. The queen, furious, said, 'Why did you let my daughter-in-law go?' They answered: 'Her departure is the very foundation of peace for the whole world; the people will at last find peace with their own families.' She bowed and took her leave, and set out after her. "Arriving in his wife's own kingdom, he disguised himself as a potter, hiring himself out to make pottery vessels, his work so exquisite that it was unmatched in the entire kingdom. The master potter, seeing this fine work, presented it as tribute to the king. The king, delighted with the vessel, gave it to his youngest daughter, who showed it to her sisters in turn. Moonlight recognized her husband's own handiwork, and threw it to the ground, breaking it. He then hired himself out to a dyer of fine silks, and wove a single bolt of extraordinary and marvelous craftsmanship, filled with every kind of skillful design, a rarity such as the world had seldom seen. The dyer, delighted with this marvel, likewise presented it to the king. The king, delighted anew, showed it to his eight daughters. Moonlight recognized it, and cast it aside without looking at it. He then hired himself out to a great minister to tend his horses, which grew fat and well-trained under his care. The minister asked, 'What other skills do you have?' He answered, 'I am skilled in every fine delicacy served in the royal kitchens.' The minister had him prepare a dish to present to the great king. The king asked, 'Who prepared this dish?' The minister answered truthfully, and the king appointed him to the royal kitchen, overseeing every fine dish. Bringing a soup within to serve the king's eight daughters, he deliberately, as a stratagem, spilled it over his own body; the daughters were all startled and afraid, but Moonlight did not even glance at him. Śakra, lord of the gods, delighted, exclaimed in praise: 'Has the bodhisattva's own concern for relieving living beings truly reached even this far? I will now assist him with an expedient of my own.' He then provoked the seven rival kingdoms to gather at once at his wife's own capital, so that the root calamity of the countless people might at last be resolved. He transformed a document to appear as though written in Moonlight's own father's hand, promising Moonlight in marriage to each of them. The seven kingdoms then prepared wedding ceremonies and sent envoys to receive the bride, all arriving together, and, comforting one another, asked: 'Why have you come here?' Each answered: 'To marry the princess named Moonlight.' A great dispute broke out among them, each producing his own document, and, with one angry voice together, they said: 'We shall destroy your line without fail.' They sent envoys back with letters, all reproaching him together: 'To toy with our seven kingdoms over a single daughter — our combined grievance and our massed troops mean your kingdom's ruin is now at hand.' The father-king, terrified, said: 'This calamity is grave indeed. Could this be brought on by some past deed of mine?' He said to Moonlight: 'As a wife, whether your husband proves wise or foolish, fortunate or unfortunate, handsome or homely, is determined by past karma — who could ever avert it? And yet you have not remained singly devoted, nor fulfilled your filial duty to your elders. Because of your shabby treatment of your husband, he has fled back to his own kingdom, and this calamity has now arrived. I must now divide your body into seven parts to appease these seven kings.' Moonlight, weeping, said: 'I beg only a brief respite of my life, that I might seek out some wise person — surely there is someone capable of turning back this calamity from these seven kingdoms.' The king then proclaimed: 'Whoever can avert this calamity shall have Moonlight as his wife, and be raised to the highest blessing.' The prince said: 'Quickly build a high viewing tower, and I will avert it.' Once the tower was built, the prince, feigning illness, staggered and fell to the ground, saying: 'I must be carried by Moonlight herself, and only then can the enemy be repelled.' Moonlight, terrified and fearing she would be slaughtered, nonetheless supported him onto the tower, barely managing to help him stand. The prince then called out in a great voice to the kings of the seven kingdoms, his voice resounding far like a lion's roar, admonishing them with the Buddha's own teaching: 'To shepherd the people on heaven's behalf, one must govern with benevolence — and yet you have now raised your anger; where anger takes hold, calamity follows, and where calamity takes hold, one's own life is lost. The loss of one's own life and the ruin of one's own kingdom — is this not brought about by mere outward appearance and beauty?' The generals and warriors of all seven kingdoms, hearing this, staggered as though struck, and, after a moment, came to themselves, and wished to return to their own lands. "The prince then said to the king: 'For the way of marriage, none could serve better than these very kings. Why not give your seven other daughters in marriage to these seven kings? Your sons-in-law would then guard your borders, the king would find lasting peace, the ministers and people would find rest, and your own parents would receive proper care!' The king said, 'Excellent! What great joy this would bring!' He then commanded that his seven daughters be given in marriage to the seven kings. The wedding rites for all eight sons-in-law were held with great ceremony, and ruler and people alike rejoiced. Only then did the king, together with his ministers and people, come to know that the prince was in fact Moonlight's own former husband; he selected fine officials and warriors to escort each of the kings safely back to their own kingdoms. The nine kingdoms, now at peace, and the countless people, dancing for joy, all praised him together, saying: 'Heaven has sent down our own father! A sage's own skillful means is beyond what ordinary minds can perceive.' His virtue accumulated and his achievement complete, from that time on he shone with radiant clarity, and no further slander was ever spoken against him. "He remained in that kingdom for some years, until the great king passed away, and the prince succeeded to the throne. He granted a great amnesty for every crime, and taught the countless people through the five precepts, the six perfections, the eight fasts, and the ten virtues. Every calamity and disaster came to rest, the kingdom prospered and its people were at peace, and this great transformation spread throughout the land; all honored the Three Jewels, and, through the fullness of his virtue, blessing returned to them, every sickness dissolved, and his countenance grew radiant, surpassing even the peach blossom. And why was this so? In a past life, the bodhisattva and his wife had once farmed together as a household; he sent his wife to fetch food, and, waiting for her return, saw her instead traveling together with a pratyekabuddha, hidden along the mountain's edge, delaying for a very long time. Suspicion arose in his heart, and, seizing his hoe in anger, he meant to go and strike her. But when he reached them, he saw that his wife had divided their food and offered a portion to the renunciant, and had then withdrawn, standing with hands joined. When the renunciant had finished eating, he cast his bowl into the empty sky, its light shining brilliantly, and flew away. The husband's heart was filled with shame and regret, reflecting that his wife's own virtue had brought about this honored encounter, while his own heavy foolishness had nearly brought calamity upon them both. He said to his wife: 'I will share in the blessing of your offering. Let us both eat what remains — you bear no fault in this.' When their lives came to their end, each was reborn into a royal family. The wife's own pure and compassionate grace meant she was born beautiful from the start; the husband, having first shown anger and only later compassion, was born ugly at first and became handsome only later." The Buddha said to the monks: "When a person's conduct gives first and takes away later, in a future life they are born wealthy and noble but grow poor and destitute with age; when it takes away first and gives later, in a future life they are born poor and lowly but grow wealthy and noble with age. The prince was I myself. The wife was Yaśodharā. The father-king was King Śuddhodana. The mother is my own mother, Māyā. Śakra, lord of the gods, was Maitreya. Life after life, the bodhisattva has grieved for living beings, relieving them from the mire of their own suffering." This is how the bodhisattva, through complete wisdom, practiced the boundless perfection of giving through wisdom.

The Sūtra of the Bodhisattva Who, Through Wisdom, Escaped His Demon Wives. "Long ago the bodhisattva was, at that time, an ordinary man, sixteen years of age, of an open and penetrating disposition, broadly learned and far-seeing, thoroughly versed in every scripture without exception. He reflected: 'Among all the many scriptures and teachings of the Way, which teaching is truest? Which path brings the greatest peace?' Having reflected on this, he sighed and said: 'Only the Buddha's own scripture is truest; only the unconditioned brings the greatest peace.' He said further: 'I will hold to this truth and dwell in this peace.' When his family wished to arrange a marriage for him, he thought with dismay: 'There is no calamity of wicked deception greater than that of physical beauty — should such wicked sorcery befall me, my own virtue and the Way would both be lost. If I do not flee, will I not be devoured like a lamb by a wolf?' And so he went to another country, hiring himself out to support himself. There was an old farmer there, without an heir, who had found an abandoned girl of extraordinary beauty while walking through the fields, and raised her as his own heir, seeking throughout the whole country for a suitable husband for her, but finding none. The old man employed the bodhisattva for five years, and, observing his conduct grow ever more evident in its excellence, was moved with admiration, and said: 'Young man! I have sufficient means, and will give you my daughter in marriage, that you may become my heir.' The girl, however, possessed a spirit's own supernatural power, and bewitched the bodhisattva's mind. Not long after their marriage, he awakened to himself and thought: 'I have seen the buddhas' own clear teaching, that beauty is fire itself, and that a person drawn to it is like a moth drawn to flame — the moth, craving the flame's own light, has its body consumed by the very fire it desires. This old man has burned my own body with the fire of beauty, baited my mouth with wealth, and his household's own corruption has now destroyed my own virtue.' That night he silently fled, traveling more than a hundred leagues, and, relying on an empty pavilion, sought shelter there for the night. The pavilion-keeper asked, 'Who are you?' He said, 'I am only seeking lodging for the night.' The keeper led him inside, where he saw a fine bed and coverlet, its many treasures dazzling to the eye, and there was a woman whose face resembled that of his own former wife, who bewitched the bodhisattva's mind, and had him dwell with her for five years. His mind then awakened once more, and he thought: 'Lust is like a corrosive insect, harming the body and endangering one's life. This is precisely why I fled and hid myself before — and now, in my own weakness, I have met with it again.' He fled once more in silence, and again encountered a woman with a palace of treasures exactly as before, who bewitched his heart, and he dwelt with her for ten years. His mind awakened once more, and he thought, 'My own calamity is grave indeed.' He fled but could not escape it, and vowed deeply to himself: 'I will never again lodge anywhere.' And so he fled once more. Seeing a great house in the distance, he tried to avoid it by walking through the grass instead, but the gatekeeper called out: 'Who travels by night?' He answered, 'I am only passing on to the next inn.' The gatekeeper said, 'Travel is forbidden here.' The people within called him forward, and he saw the very same woman as before. She said: 'Since countless kalpas past, we have been sworn as husband and wife — where would you run to now?' The bodhisattva thought to himself: 'The root of desire is truly hard to uproot — has it truly come to this?' He then gave rise to a contemplation of the four truths of impermanence, thinking: 'I will use the concentration of impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and no-self to dissolve every defilement of the three realms — why, then, could I not dissolve this one small stain?' As soon as he gave rise to these four contemplations, the demon-wife vanished at once, and his heart grew bright and clear, and he beheld all the buddhas standing before him. He then embraced the concentrations of emptiness, wishlessness, and signlessness, and received the monastic precepts, becoming an unsurpassed teacher." This is how the bodhisattva, through complete wisdom, practiced the boundless perfection of giving through wisdom.

The Sūtra of Rujin's Prediction. "Long ago the bodhisattva was born in the country of Padma. At that time he was a brahmin ascetic named Rujin. Studying under a white-robed teacher, observing the heavens above and mastering every book of prophecy and scripture, he grasped whatever he heard or saw at once, held fast to truth and honored filial devotion, and was praised by the scholars of the kingdom. His teacher said: 'Your conduct in the Way is complete and your skills sufficient — why not go out and teach the beginners?' He answered: 'My past poverty leaves me with nothing to repay your grace, and so I dare not withdraw yet. My mother, too, is gravely ill, with no means to obtain medicine — I beg to hire myself out to provide for her treatment.' The teacher said, 'Very good,' and, bowing his head, he withdrew. Traveling through a neighboring country, he came upon five hundred brahmins gathered together, holding a lecture at a raised platform, offering five hundred silver coins to any woman of beauty who could ascend the high seat; among the assembled scholars, whoever was found deepest in the Way would be given the woman's own coins as tribute. The bodhisattva, observing this, saw that their own understanding was shallow, and that their challenges soon ran out of words, and said to the assembled scholars: 'I too am the son of a brahmin — might I take part in this discussion?' They all said, 'You may.' He then ascended the high seat, and, whatever shallow challenge the scholars raised, he answered with vast and expansive meaning; whatever narrow question they posed, he explained with the broadest significance. The scholars said: 'One whose understanding of the Way is this lofty and far-reaching may indeed be honored as a teacher.' They all bowed their heads in submission. The bodhisattva took his leave and withdrew, but the assembled scholars said together: 'Though his wisdom is high, he is a scholar from another country, and should not be given our own kingdom's woman in marriage — let us instead reward him further with coin.' The bodhisattva answered: 'One whose understanding of the Way is lofty holds virtue that runs deep; I seek only the Way of desirelessness — what treasure could ever match that? To pass down the Way through one's spirit, and to bestow virtue upon the sagely — spirit and sage transmitted one to another, their transforming influence never decaying — this alone could be called a worthy heir! If you wish instead to fill up the very source of the Way and cut down the very root of virtue, could this not be called leaving no heir at all?' Having said this, he withdrew, and the assembled scholars, ashamed, felt the sting of this rebuke. The woman said: 'That man of lofty understanding is truly my own destined husband.' Gathering up her robes, she set out on foot, following his trail through country after country, until her strength gave out and her feet grew blistered, and she rested by the roadside, having arrived in the country of Padma. The king of that country, named Prasenajit, was making his rounds of the kingdom's borders when he came upon the exhausted woman resting there. He asked: 'Who are you, resting here by the roadside?' The woman explained her circumstances in full. The king, moved by her resolve, felt great sorrow for her, and commanded her: 'Follow me back to the palace, and I will make you my own daughter.' The woman said: 'How could I eat the food of another's household for nothing? I beg only to be given some duty to fulfill, and I will then follow the great king.' The king said, 'You may gather fine flowers to adorn my palace.' The woman respectfully agreed, and, following the king back to the palace, gathered fine flowers daily for his use. "Rujin, returning to his own country, saw the roads filled with excited crowds, the ground leveled and swept clean, and asked a passerby: 'The people seem so joyful — is there some celebration?' He answered: 'The Tathāgata Dīpaṃkara, 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, is coming to teach and transform us — this is why everyone rejoices.' Rujin, his heart filled with joy, entered a state of quiet absorption, his mind pure and without defilement. Seeing that the Buddha was about to arrive, he happened, on the road, to meet the very same woman as before, carrying a vase of flowers, and asked her for some; he obtained five blossoms from her. The king, his queen, and the common people all came out to sweep and prepare the road themselves; the bodhisattva asked for a small section of ground, and worked to prepare it with his own hands. The people said: 'There remains only a small stream, its current too swift, where earth and stone cannot hold.' The bodhisattva said, 'I will use the power of meditative concentration to bring down that small star and fill it in — shall I?' He then reflected further: 'In the proper conduct of making an offering, it is best that one's own bodily strength and effort be applied.' He then set the star aside and instead carried stones with his own body's strength to fill the gap, holding the star's power in reserve. A small portion still remained wet and unfinished when the Buddha arrived; he took off his own deerskin robe and laid it upon the damp ground, and scattered his five flowers over the Buddha, and the flowers scattered through the air as though a hand had sown seeds that took root and grew on the spot. The Buddha said to him: 'After ninety-one kalpas, you shall become a buddha, named the Tathāgata Śākyamuni, 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. In that age, the world will be turned upside down, father and son will become enemies, and the king's own governance will harm the people like a rain of blades; though the people try to flee it, they will not escape this affliction. You shall relieve living beings in that very time, and the number of those who attain liberation through you will be beyond all reckoning.' Rujin's heart filled with joy, and he leapt into the empty sky, rising seven fathoms above the ground, then descended, spreading his own hair upon the ground for the Buddha to walk upon. The World-Honored One, having crossed over it, said to the monks: 'Do not walk upon this ground. And why is this? This is the very place where a prediction of buddhahood was received, its honor unsurpassed; a person of wisdom should erect a stūpa here, exactly as at the site of such a prediction.' The gods all said together with one voice: 'We will build the stūpa.' At that time there was the son of an elder, named Xianqian, who inserted a small twig of firewood into the ground, saying: 'My own stūpa is already established.' The gods, looking at one another, said: 'How could this ordinary young man possess the wisdom of the highest sage?' They then brought forth every treasure and built a stūpa above it, bowing their heads and saying: 'We wish that when we attain buddhahood, we too may transform beings just as this Buddha does now — what blessing does the stūpa now established here hold?' The World-Honored One said: 'When Rujin attains buddhahood, you too shall receive your own prediction.'" The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "Rujin was I myself. The flower-selling woman is now Yaśodharā. The elder's son is now the one seated among us, Bharadvāja." Bharadvāja then bowed his head at the Buddha's feet, and the Buddha bestowed upon him this prediction: "You shall in time become a buddha, named Fine Vision." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, the four classes of disciples, gods, humans, dragons, and spirits, all rejoiced without exception, bowed their heads, and departed. This is how the bodhisattva, through complete wisdom, practiced the boundless perfection of giving through wisdom.

The Sūtra of King Makhādeva. Thus have I heard: at one time the Blessed One was in the country of Amoya, seated beneath a tree, his countenance radiant, surpassing even purple gold, and he smiled with delight, light of five colors shining from his mouth. There was no one who witnessed this who did not leap with joy, all saying together: "This is truly what is meant by the heaven of heavens." Ānanda, adjusting his robes, bowed his head and said: "The Blessed One's smile must surely be meant to deliver living beings from their own darkness." The Blessed One said: "Excellent! It is exactly as you say — I do not smile without purpose; this smile itself is the very rising of the Dharma. Do you wish to know its meaning?" Ānanda answered: "Hungry and thirsty for this sacred teaching, I could never truly be satisfied." The Blessed One said: "Long ago there was a sacred king named Makhādeva, at that time a flying, wheel-turning emperor, ruling over the four continents of the world, his heart upright and his conduct fair, the people holding no secret resentment toward him, his compassion, kindness, joy, and protection matching Śakra's own. At that time the people lived for eighty thousand years. The emperor possessed the seven treasures: the purple-gold wheel that turns and flies, the flying white elephant, the dark-blue divine horse, the bright moon divine pearl, the sacred jade-maiden wife, the sacred minister who held the treasury, and the sacred minister who commanded the army. The emperor had a thousand sons, upright, benevolent, and calm, wise in matters of the past and foreseeing what was yet to come, and there was no being of understanding who did not honor and admire them. Whenever the emperor wished to travel to the east, west, south, or north, the golden wheel would appear before him as soon as the thought arose, and would carry him wherever his heart desired, with the seven treasures accompanying him in the same way, guiding the sacred king in flight; gods, dragons, and good spirits guarded him without exception, scattering every kind of treasured flower, and wishing him boundless long life. The emperor commanded a close attendant in charge of his own grooming: 'Should you see a single white hair growing upon my head, you must report it to me at once. The color white in one's hair is clear proof of decline and death. I wish to give up this defiled, worldly office, and take up instead the pure and tranquil conduct of the Way.' The attendant, following this instruction, later saw a white hair and reported it at once. The emperor's heart rejoiced, and he summoned the crown prince and said: 'A white hair has grown on my head, and white is the clear proof of impermanence — I should no longer scatter my thoughts on this world of no lasting benefit. I now establish you as emperor, to rule the four continents; the lives of my ministers and people are now bound to you, and you should show them compassion. If you follow the very conduct I myself have followed, you may avoid the paths of evil; upon seeing white hair, give up the kingdom, and you must become a renunciant. In establishing my son, my teaching to him is this: let the four immeasurable virtues, the five precepts, and the ten virtues come first.' Having finished this instruction, he at once gave up his kingdom, and, on this very spot beneath this tree, shaved his beard and hair, put on the robe of the Dharma, and became a renunciant. His ministers and the common people, grieving, threw themselves down in mourning, weeping and overcome with sorrow. "The lineage of King Makhādeva's own Dharma-heirs continued for one thousand and eighty-four generations, and, as the age of the true Dharma of this sagely emperor drew toward its final decline, King Makhādeva himself once again gave up his place in heaven, and his spirit descended to be born as a king of that latter age, likewise becoming a flying, wheel-turning emperor, named Nan, "the South," and the true Dharma flourished anew. He gave clear instruction to the queens and noble ladies of his palace, to honor the eight precepts and the six monthly fast days: first, to be compassionate and pitying, cherishing the lives of every living being; second, to be careful never to steal, and to relieve the poor from the wealth of the rich; third, to hold to chastity and purity, guarding one's own truth; fourth, to hold to trustworthiness, speaking only in accordance with the Buddha's own teaching; fifth, to be utterly filial, never letting wine pass one's lips; sixth, never to lie upon a high bed or embroidered canopy; seventh, never to eat food after the evening hour; eighth, to take care never to let fragrant oils or cosmetics touch the body, and never to indulge in lascivious song or wicked music that defiles one's own conduct. Let the mind hold no such thought, the mouth speak no such word, and the body commit no such deed. He commanded his sagely ministers, leading officials, and worthy men, down to the common people: 'Regardless of rank, let everyone honor the six fasts, study and hold to the eight precepts, keeping them close to their own person, reciting them three times daily, being filial and obedient to their parents, honoring their elders, and revering those who have stilled their own minds, sending their own children to receive instruction in the scriptures. Provide relief for widowers, widows, the young and weak, and beggars; give medicine, clothing, and food to relieve the sick; let those in hardship and want come to the palace gate to ask for what they lack. Whoever does not follow this transformation shall bear an increased burden of labor service, with each such household placed among five worthy households, that the five may transform the one; those who comply first shall be rewarded, and ministers shall be chosen for their worthiness, not their noble birth.' From the time the king put this clear law into effect, the people of the four continents treated one another with compassion and harmony, and the very intent to kill was extinguished. What one deserved, one always yielded to another instead; at night, doors were left unlocked; chastity and purity prevailed, and no one desired any but their own spouse. No one spoke a contradiction; whatever instruction was given was received with compassion; what was seen was never anything but sincere, and speech was never flowery or false. Seeing good fortune in another, the heart rejoiced and spoke words of encouragement; the great Way flourished in practice, and every wicked poison was dissolved. All believed in the Buddha, believed in the Dharma, believed in the community of monks, and their words held no further doubt. "King Nan's compassionate grace reached everywhere without exception, and the eight directions, above and below, praised his virtue without end. The second heavenly Śakra, the Four Heavenly Kings, the sun, moon, and stars, the dragons of the sea and the spirits of the earth, all deliberated together daily: 'This human king's own four immeasurable virtues of compassionate giving — his grace surpasses even that of the gods themselves.' Śakra, lord of the gods, said to the assembled gods: 'Would you not wish to see King Nan?' The gods answered: 'This has long been our own wish — exactly as your honored instruction says.' Śakra, in the space of a single arm's stretch, arrived at King Nan's own hall of compassionate grace, and, seeing King Nan, said: 'Sacred King, your abundant virtue has left the gods hungry and thirsty to meet you, with not a single day passing without this wish. Sacred King, would you not wish to see the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven, where, of its own nature, every wish is fulfilled without exception?' King Nan said, 'Very well, I wish to see it.' Śakra returned to heaven, and called his charioteer, named Mātali: 'Take my own chariot of a thousand treasured horses and go to welcome King Nan.' The charioteer, following this command, welcomed King Nan with the heavenly chariot. The chariot arrived and stopped before the palace gates, and the assembled ministers and common people, without exception, were struck with astonishment, marveling at this sign of the sacred king's own unprecedented glory, and proclaimed it to one another, and the whole land rejoiced together. 'Our king's universal compassion has reached every living being, and he himself has cultivated the six fasts and the eight precepts each month, and taught the people to do the same — his virtue is weighty indeed, and this is why the heavenly king himself has come, with such honor and love, to welcome him.' King Nan ascended the chariot, and the chariot and horses both took flight, moving slowly and circling about so the people could see it fully; the king said to his charioteer: 'First, take me to see the two evil paths — hell and the hungry-ghost realm — where those who receive the punishment for their past crimes are burned, boiled, and tortured.' The charioteer, following this command, showed him these, and only then ascended to heaven. "Śakra, overjoyed, rose from his own throne to welcome him, and said: 'You have labored your heart in governing your realm, grieving over and relieving living beings, the great work of a bodhisattva through the four immeasurable virtues and the six perfections — the gods themselves have long wished to see you.' Śakra himself came forward, took his arm, and sat together with him. King Nan's own form and bearing were transformed, becoming fragrant and pure, his countenance radiant and upright, no different from Śakra's own. He then had famous music played, its sound beyond measure, and scattered treasured flowers and incense, a sight such as the world had never seen. Śakra said further: 'Take care not to long for your former dwelling in the world below — the many joys of heaven now belong to you, Sacred King.' But King Nan's own resolve was set on transforming the ignorant and dark, dissolving every wicked heart and bringing them to know the Three Jewels, and he answered Śakra: 'It is like borrowing an object from someone — it must, in the end, be returned to its true owner. This heavenly throne is not my own permanent dwelling; I must return for a time to the world below, to teach my own descendants, using the Buddha's own clear teaching to set their hearts right and govern the kingdom well, that filial devotion may be passed down in succession, the precepts complete and conduct lofty, and, when they have given up their human bodies, ascend to heaven and share in this very joy with Śakra himself.'" The Buddha said to Ānanda: "King Nan was I myself. His descendants continued in succession for one thousand and eighty-four generations, each in turn establishing his own son as king while the father himself became a renunciant." Ānanda, filled with joy, bowed his head and said: "The Blessed One's compassionate grief for living beings, and the grace of his benevolence, has reached even this far — his merit and virtue never decaying, and now, having attained buddhahood, he has become the most honored of the three realms, revered without exception by every god and sage." The monks, filled with joy, bowed in reverence and departed.

The Sūtra of Ānimeṣa. Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was in the assembly at Uruvela, in the country of Śrāvastī. At that time, after their midday meal, the monks were seated in the lecture hall, discussing privately among themselves: "Human life is extremely short, and the body's own peace lasts only a little while, before one must move on to the next life. Among gods and humans, and every other being, none that is born fails to die. And yet the foolish and ignorant, stingy and grasping, give nothing away, do not honor the scriptures and the Way, and say that goodness brings no blessing and evil no grave consequence. Indulging their own hearts freely, there is no evil they do not commit, going against the Buddha's own teaching — what benefit, then, is there in regretting it afterward?" The Buddha, with his heavenly ear, heard from afar the monks discussing this matter of impermanence and the unsurpassed truth, and the World-Honored One rose at once and went to where the monks were, took his seat among them, and asked: "What have you been discussing?" They answered, kneeling: "Since our meal, we have been discussing together how human life passes swiftly and will soon move on to the next existence," and told him exactly what they had said. The World-Honored One said in praise: "Excellent, excellent! How very fine indeed! Having given up your households to study the Way, your resolve should be pure and clean, with only goodness worth holding in mind. When a monk sits or rises, he should hold two matters in mind: first, to expound the scriptures; second, to rest in meditation. Would you like to hear a scripture on this?" They answered, "Indeed, we would be glad to hear it." The World-Honored One then said: "Long ago there was a kingdom named Juli, and within that kingdom there grew a tree named Subhadra, five hundred and sixty leagues in circumference, its roots below spreading eight hundred and forty leagues in every direction, its height four thousand leagues, its branches spreading two thousand leagues in every direction. This tree had five sides: on one side, the king and his palace attendants ate its fruit; on the second, the hundred officials ate it; on the third, the common people ate it; on the fourth, renunciants and practitioners of the Way ate it; and on the fifth, birds and beasts ate it. Its fruit was as large as a two-peck vessel, sweet as honey, and, though no one guarded it, none took more than their share. At that time the people all lived to be eighty-four thousand years old, and had, in general, nine kinds of affliction: cold, heat, hunger, thirst, the need to relieve oneself, craving and desire, overeating, and the frailty of old age — these nine afflictions. Women at that time did not marry until the age of five hundred. There was an elder at that time named Ānimeṣa, whose wealth was beyond counting. Ānimeṣa reflected to himself: 'My own life is exceedingly brief, and none who is born escapes death; treasure is never truly one's own, and so often brings disaster upon its owner — it would be better to give it away to relieve the poor and needy. Worldly glory, however pleasant, never lasts forever — it would be better to give up my own household, cast off its defiling corruption, hold to purity, wear the monastic robe, and become a renunciant.' He then went before the assembly of the worthy and received the monastic precepts. Seeing Ānimeṣa become a renunciant, several thousand ordinary people, moved by his own sacred transformation, all awakened to the truth of impermanence — that whatever flourishes must decline, and whatever exists must eventually perish, and that only the Way itself is worth honoring — and they too became renunciants, following his own teaching. "Ānimeṣa expounded this teaching for his disciples: 'Human life is extremely brief, fleeting and impermanent, and one must soon give up this body for the next existence. None who is born escapes death — how could life ever be kept for long? For this reason, one should cut off entirely the heart of stinginess and greed, give to the poor and needy, restrain one's own passions and desires, and commit no evil whatsoever. As a person dwells in this world, life passes with extreme swiftness; human life is like the dew upon the morning grass, gone in but a moment. Being thus, how could it ever be kept for long? Human life is like a bubble rising when heavenly rain strikes the water, vanishing as soon as it forms — the swift passage of life is even more fleeting than that bubble. Human life is like a flash of lightning, vanishing in but an instant — the swift passage of life is even more fleeting than that lightning. Human life is like water struck with a rod — the rod withdraws, and the water closes again at once — the swift passage of life is even more fleeting than this. Human life is like a small amount of fat placed upon a blazing fire, consumed in but a moment — the swift passage of life passes even more quickly than that fat. Human life is like the thread on a loom, gradually diminishing to nothing; the days and nights of one's allotted span wear away just the same, with much sorrow and heavy suffering — how could it ever be kept for long? Human life is like an ox being led to the slaughterhouse — with every step the ox takes, it draws one step nearer to its own death; a person's own single day is like a single step of that ox, and the swift passage of life is even more urgent than this. Human life is like water flowing down from a mountain, advancing swiftly day and night without a moment's pause; the passing of human life is swifter even than this, hastening toward death day and night, advancing swiftly without ever resting. A person dwelling in this world endures great toil and much anxious thought; human life is hard to obtain, and for this reason one should honor the true Way, hold fast to the conduct of the scriptures and precepts without ever damaging them, and give to the poor and needy — for no person born into this world ever fails to die.' Ānimeṣa taught his disciples in this way, and said further: 'I have given up greed, lust, anger, delusion, singing and dancing and music, drowsiness, and every wicked and deviant thought, and have taken up instead a pure mind, departing far from craving and desire, casting aside every evil conduct, washing away the defilement within my own mind, extinguishing every outward thought; seeing goodness, I do not rejoice; meeting evil, I do not grieve; suffering and pleasure become one and the same, my conduct made pure, my mind unmoving and single-pointed — and thus I have attained the fourth absorption. I teach and transform people and things with a compassionate heart, that they may know the good path and ascend to be reborn in heaven, grieving for them and fearing they might fall instead into an evil path. I have seen the four absorptions and every concentration of emptiness, missing nothing, my heart filled with joy; with what I have seen, I teach and transform the ten thousand things, that they may see this profound teaching as well. Whoever attains this practice of meditation and this work of the Buddha, I rejoice for them in turn. I nurture and protect the ten thousand things as I would protect my own body. Practicing these four matters, my heart remains equally upright; whatever coarse or fine form the eye perceives, whatever praise or curse the ear hears, whatever fragrant or foul scent, whatever sweet or bitter taste, whatever smooth or coarse sensation, whatever wish that pleases the heart or vexation that goes against it — I take no delight in what is pleasing, and hold no resentment toward what is not. Holding to these six practices, I have arrived at the unsurpassed, true and right Way. You too should practice these same six matters, that you may attain the way of an arhat.' Ānimeṣa was the most honored teacher among the many sages of the three realms, his wisdom penetrating everything, missing nothing however hidden. Though his many disciples did not all immediately attain the way of an arhat, when their lives came to their end, they were all reborn in heaven. Those whose minds were still and whose resolve was set on meditative concentration were reborn in the Brahmā heavens; next, those reborn in the heaven of spontaneous manifestation; next, in the heaven of unrestrained joy; next, in Tuṣita heaven; next, in the heaven of flame; next, in Trāyastriṃśa heaven; next, in the first heaven above; and next, into the households of kings and nobles in the human world. Those of lofty conduct attained a lofty result, and those of lesser conduct a lesser one; poverty and wealth, honor and lowliness, a long life or an early death — all are determined by one's own past karma, and none who honored Ānimeṣa's own precepts suffered for it in vain. "Ānimeṣa was I myself. Any monk who diligently applies himself with vigor may escape the suffering and vexation of birth, old age, sickness, and death, and attain the great way of an arhat and final liberation; even one who cannot fully practice this may still attain the path of a non-returner, a once-returner, or a stream-enterer. The wise reflect deeply: human life is impermanent, fleeting, and brief, lasting at most a hundred years, if one is fortunate enough to reach it at all. Within those hundred years, there pass in all three hundred seasons, spring, summer, and winter each occurring a hundred times; twelve hundred months pass, spring, summer, and winter each occurring four hundred months; thirty-six thousand days pass, spring accounting for twelve thousand of them, and summer's heat and winter's cold each accounting for twelve thousand more. Within a hundred years, eating twice a day, one eats in all seventy-two thousand meals, spring, summer, and winter each accounting for twenty-four thousand of these. And this is excluding the time as an infant nursing at the breast, not yet able to eat solid food, or times when one is too troubled to eat, or ill, or angry, or in meditation, or fasting, or too poor to have food — all of this is already included within those seventy-two thousand meals. Within a hundred years, subtracting the time spent asleep at night, fifty years are lost; subtracting infancy, another ten years; subtracting illness, another ten years; subtracting the management of household affairs and other matters, another twenty years — so that in a hundred years of human life, only ten years of true joy remain." The Buddha said to the monks: "I have now spoken of human life, of its years, its months, its days, its meals, and its lifespan; what I intended to say to you monks, I have now said in full, and what I myself have sought has now been fully accomplished. You monks, too, should bring what you yourselves seek to its completion. Whether in the mountains and marshes or in an ancestral hall, expound the scriptures and reflect on the Way without ever growing lazy — one who indulges his own heart's pleasure will later have nothing but regret." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, there was no monk who did not rejoice, and, bowing to the Buddha, they departed. This is how the bodhisattva, through complete wisdom, practiced the boundless perfection of giving through wisdom.

The Sūtra of King Mirror-Face. Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī. The assembled monks, carrying their alms bowls, entered the city to beg for food while it was not yet midday, and thought among themselves: "It is still quite early to enter the city — shall we not go together to the lecture hall of the ascetics of other schools, and sit there for a while?" They all agreed, "Let us do so," and went there together, greeting the ascetics of that school in return, and took their seats. At that time these ascetics were engaged in a dispute among themselves over their own scriptures, their disagreement unresolved, accusing and slandering one another in turn: "I know this teaching — what teaching do you know? What I know accords with the Way; what you know does not accord with the Way. My own teaching of the Way may be put into practice; your own teaching of the Way is hardly worth associating with. When one thing is said before, something else is said after; when something is said later, it contradicts what was said earlier — your many words are simply wrong, a burden too heavy to lift; when I explain the meaning to you, you cannot understand it; your own knowledge is empty, and you possess nothing at all — how could you press me further?" Attacking one another with these tongues like spears, each wounding the other in turn, one poison answered with three in return. The monks, hearing these companions speak such wicked words to one another, neither approved nor confirmed anything they said, and rose from their seats and went instead to Śrāvastī to beg for food. Having eaten, they put away their bowls and returned to Jetavana, bowed to the Buddha, and, sitting to one side, told him exactly what they had witnessed, wondering when these companions of other schools, so bitter in their own studies, would ever come to understand. The Buddha said to the monks: "These companions of other schools are not confused only in this one lifetime. Monks! Long ago, in this very land of Jambudvīpa, there was a king named Mirror-Face, who recited the Buddha's own essential scriptures, his wisdom as vast as the sands of the Ganges. But his ministers and people mostly did not recite them, holding instead to their own small books bound with chains, trusting in the faint glow of a firefly while doubting the distant light of the sun and moon — they were like blind men, and he wished to use them as an example, that they might give up wading through shallow puddles and instead swim the great ocean itself. He commanded his messengers to travel throughout the kingdom's borders and bring every person born blind to the palace gate. His ministers, following this command, brought together every blind person in the kingdom to the palace, and reported: 'We have gathered all those without sight, and they now stand below the hall.' The king said, 'Bring them forward, and show them an elephant.' The ministers, following the king's own command, led these blind people to where the elephant stood, taking each by the hand and guiding them to touch it. Among them, some held the elephant's foot, some its tail, some the base of its tail, some its belly, some its side, some its back, some its ear, some its head, some its tusk, and some its trunk, and the blind people, at the elephant's side, fell into confused dispute, each insisting that his own impression was true and the others' false. The messengers led them back before the king. The king asked them: 'Have you all now seen the elephant?' They answered, 'We have all seen it.' The king asked, 'What is an elephant like?' The one who had held its foot answered: 'Enlightened King! The elephant is like a lacquered tube.' The one who had held its tail said it was like a broom; the one who had held the base of the tail said it was like a staff; the one who had held its belly said it was like a drum; the one who had held its side said it was like a wall; the one who had held its back said it was like a raised platform; the one who had held its ear said it was like a winnowing basket; the one who had held its head said it was like a large pot; the one who had held its tusk said it was like a horn; and the one who had held its trunk answered: 'Enlightened King! The elephant is like a great rope.' They then argued before the king, each saying, 'Great King, the elephant is truly as I have described.' "King Mirror-Face laughed greatly at this, and said: 'Blind indeed, blind indeed! You are just like those who have not yet seen the Buddha's own scriptures.' And he spoke this verse: 'Now, like this company of the blind, they dispute emptily, each calling his own view the truth; seeing only one part, they say the rest is false, and, seated by a single elephant, resent one another.' He said further: 'To cling exclusively to one's own small book, and never behold the Buddha's own scriptures, vast and boundless, towering and beyond compare, true and correct — this is exactly like being blind!' And so, high and low alike, all took up the recitation of the Buddha's own scriptures." The Buddha said to the monks: "King Mirror-Face was I myself. The blind people were these very ascetics of the lecture hall. At that time, your own companions, lacking wisdom, sat blindly and fell into dispute; today's dispute is likewise a form of blindness, and disputing in this way brings no benefit at all." At that time the Buddha examined this entire scroll in full, and had his disciples understand it, that it might serve as a bright model for later generations, and that his own teaching of the Way might long endure — and so he spoke this teaching to complete the meaning of the scripture: "To claim from one's own darkness that one is right and another is wrong, dwelling in foolishness, one's own faults leaking out — when will such a person ever find brightness? Lacking the Way oneself, and yet claiming that one's own study alone is correct, confused and disordered in one's own conduct — when will such a person ever be freed from this? Always believing one's own conduct to be the most honored, hearing and seeing nothing to compare to it, one has already fallen into the bondage of this world's own five dwellings, and yet still claims one's own clever conduct surpasses others'. Holding to foolishness, one still hopes to attain goodness; through wicked study, one still hopes to attain deliverance — whatever is seen or heard as truth should be carefully reflected upon; though one may hold the precepts, do not assume this alone is sufficient. Seeing the conduct of the world, do not follow it entirely; though one may be clever and hold right thoughts, one's own conduct too should be held to the same standard; matching one's conduct to this standard, one should hold it with equal reverence, never conceiving the thought that one has already gone beyond fault. This is why, cutting off what follows, one exhausts it entirely; giving up such thoughts, one walks alone and attains; do not assume that knowing this alone brings cleverness — though one may see and hear, one must still observe one's own conduct directly. Hold no wish toward either extreme; the womb, too, joins together and then departs far away; and in neither state does one dwell anywhere at all — observing all dharmas in this way, one attains true stillness. The mind receives and acts on what is seen and heard; wherever a deviant thought, however small, arises, wisdom should observe both the intention and the meaning of this teaching; from this, one attains release from the emptiness of the world. If one has nothing of one's own, what is there left to depend upon? One should, from the very root, seek the true meaning of the Dharma; but to merely hold the precepts is not yet wisdom — only the boundless perfection brings one, in the end, to never turn back."

The Sūtra of King Chawei. "Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king, named Chawei, "the One Who Examines the Subtle," his resolve pure and his conduct clean, taking refuge only in the Three Jewels, studying the Buddha's own scriptures, his mind stilled and dwelling on their meaning, seeing deeply into the origin of human beings, arising, from the very beginning, out of the original, formless nature. The strong portion of the primal breath becomes earth; the soft portion becomes water; the warm portion becomes fire; and the moving portion becomes wind; and when these four are harmoniously combined, consciousness and spirit are born. When this brightness above can awaken, and desire is stilled and the mind emptied, the spirit returns to its own original, formless nature; and so he made this vow: 'Let those who have not yet awakened to this understand: the spirit relies upon these four elements to be established; great benevolence becomes a heavenly being, small benevolence becomes a human being, and every mixed and defiled conduct becomes a flying, crawling, or wriggling creature — one receives a body according to one's own conduct, taking countless different forms, and consciousness together with the primal breath is subtle and mysterious, difficult to behold; the body itself has not a single hair holding it fixed in place — who, then, could ever grasp hold of it? And yet, casting off the old and receiving the new, this cycle continues from beginning to end without limit.' The king, understanding that the numinous, primal element transforms without ceasing, without any fixed and lasting form, turning through the five paths in an unbroken chain, wished to resolve his ministers' own confusion on this matter, for their darkness was hard to dispel and they still harbored doubt, saying: 'When the body dies, the spirit is born again, receiving a different form — we, your servants, though many, know little of our own past lives.' The king said: 'If your discussion has not even grasped the very starting point, how could you ever come to understand the affairs of past ages? If your own sight cannot perceive what is worn away before your eyes, how could you ever behold the transformations of the spirit itself?' "On a day of leisure, the king went out through a private gate, dressed in coarse clothing and traveling alone, and, coming upon an old cobbler mending sandals, said to him in jest: 'Among all the people of this land, who do you suppose is happiest?' The old man said, 'Only the king could be happy.' The king asked, 'What does his happiness consist of?' The old man answered: 'The hundred officials serve him with reverence, and the countless people offer him tribute; whatever he wishes is granted at once — is this not happiness?' The king said, 'It is exactly as you say.' He then gave the old man wine made from grapes, and, once the old man was thoroughly drunk and unaware of anything, he had him carried and laid within the palace. He said to his principal consort: 'This cobbler said, "The king is happy." I now wish to play a trick on him: dress him in royal robes, and let him attend to the affairs of state — do not let the assembled officials be startled by this.' The consort said, 'I will do as you say.' On the day the old man awoke, his attendants deceptively said to him: 'The great king has been drunk for some time now, and state affairs have piled up considerably — you should attend to them at once and go out to preside over court.' The hundred ministers pressed him to settle these matters, but he was utterly bewildered, unable to make sense of anything around him; the court historian recorded his errors, and the officials pressed him with sharp criticism. He sat upon the throne the whole day, his entire body aching with distress, finding no pleasure in his food, and, day by day, grew visibly thinner. The palace women asked him falsely: 'Great King, why has your radiant countenance grown so diminished?' He answered: 'I dreamed I was a cobbler, laboring with my own hands to find food — it was extremely difficult to describe, and this is why I have grown so ill.' There was no one among them who did not secretly laugh at this. Unable to sleep at night, tossing and turning, he said to himself: 'Am I truly a cobbler? Or am I truly the Son of Heaven? If I am truly the Son of Heaven, why is my skin so coarse? If I was originally a cobbler, how have I come to dwell within a royal palace? My own heart is thrown into confusion, and my very eyes seem disordered! Between these two states of being, I cannot tell which is the true one.' His principal consort then said falsely, 'The great king seems unwell,' and had musicians and performers brought in fully, and gave him wine made from grapes once more; thoroughly drunk again and unaware of anything, he was returned to his former clothing and laid upon his own humble bed. When the wine's effect wore off and he awoke, he found himself in his own shabby dwelling, dressed in his own worn clothing exactly as before, every joint in his body aching as though he had been beaten with rods. Some days later, the king went to see him again, and the old man said: 'The last time I drank your wine, I grew dizzy and confused, unaware of anything, and only now have I awoken from it. I dreamed I occupied the throne of a king, attending to the affairs of state, the court historian recording my faults, and the assembled officials pressing me with sharp criticism, my heart filled the whole time with fear and dread, the aching in my every joint no less than if I had truly been beaten with rods. If even a dream could be like this, how much more so if I were truly a king? What I said before must certainly not be true after all.' "The king returned to his palace and discussed this matter with his assembled ministers, and there was much laughter that reached his ears. The king said to his ministers: 'Even within this single lifetime, what one has personally experienced through one's own sight and hearing, one still cannot fully understand even now — how much more so, then, across a different age, casting off the old to receive the new, passing through every manner of hardship, the affliction of demons and misfortune, and yet still wishing to know where the spirit's own transformation leads and what body it will receive? Is this not difficult indeed? The scripture says: "The foolish, holding every wicked view, wish to behold the spirit directly — this is like one in utter darkness trying to gaze upon the stars and moon, wearing out one's whole body and life without ever managing to see them."' And so his ministers and the common people of the entire realm, for the first time, came to understand that the spirit and the primal breath are joined together, ending only to begin again, turning without limit, and came to believe that there truly exists a fortune and misfortune that follows birth and death, and a destination toward which each is bound." The Buddha said to the monks: "The king of that time was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, through complete wisdom, practiced the boundless perfection of giving through wisdom.

The Sūtra of the Brahmā 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 the monks: "You who cultivate virtue and practice every goodness will surely obtain great blessing. It is like a farmer who has long possessed a fine field, plowed and tilled to readiness, moistened by timely and gentle rain, its seed sown at the proper season and sprouting in accordance with the seasons; weeding away every weed and impurity, and free of calamity or harm — how could he fear not reaping his harvest? Long ago, in a former life, before I had yet become a buddha, my heart held vast and universal love, grieving for and relieving living beings, just as a loving mother nurtures her own infant child; I did this for seven years, and my benevolent merit became renowned. When my life ended, my spirit rose to become the Brahmā King above, called Brahmādatta, dwelling in that heavenly rank. Through the further passage of heaven and earth, seven times formed and seven times destroyed, and each time destruction approached, I would rise further, up to the fifteenth heaven of pure restraint, and afterward, beginning anew, I would return once more to the Brahmā heaven, pure and free of desire, dwelling there according to my own nature. Afterward, I returned to become Śakra, lord of Trāyastriṃśa heaven, thirty-six times in succession, dwelling amid the seven-treasured palace halls, my food, drink, clothing, and music arising of their own accord. Afterward, I returned once more to the world below and became a flying, wheel-turning emperor, escorted by the seven treasures: first, the purple-gold wheel that turns; second, the bright moon divine pearl; third, the flying white elephant; fourth, the dark-blue horse with a vermilion mane; fifth, the jade-maiden wife; sixth, the minister who held the treasury; and seventh, the sacred minister who commanded the army. Each of these matters numbered eighty-four thousand in all. The king had a thousand sons, every one of them upright, radiant, benevolent, and courageous, each equal to a match for a thousand men. At that time, the king governed through five teachings, never wronging his own people: first, compassionate benevolence, never killing, his grace reaching every living being; second, pure and yielding, never stealing, giving up his own wealth to relieve the multitude; third, chaste and pure, never lustful, never transgressing any desire; fourth, sincere and trustworthy, never deceiving, his words free of flowery falsehood; fifth, honoring filial devotion, never intoxicated, his conduct free of any stain. At that time, prisons were never established, and the rod and lash were never applied; wind and rain came in their proper harmony, the five grains ripened in abundance, and no disaster or calamity ever arose; that age knew great peace, and the people of the four continents of the world followed one another in the Way. They believed that goodness brings blessing and that evil brings grave calamity, and all, at death, ascended to heaven, with none falling into the three evil paths." The Buddha said to the monks: "Long ago, in a former life, I practiced the four immeasurable minds for seven years' time, and through this rose to become the Brahmā King above, and, below, became Śakra, and returned once more to the world below to become a flying, wheel-turning emperor, ruling the four continents of the world across several thousand and a hundred lifetimes; my merit accumulated and my virtue became complete, every evil was extinguished, and every good quality gathered together in full, until, dwelling in this world, I became a buddha, walking alone through the three realms, honored uniquely above all." The monks, hearing this teaching, rejoiced, and, bowing to the Buddha, departed. This is how the bodhisattva, through complete wisdom, practiced the boundless perfection of giving through wisdom. This concludes Fascicle 8 of the Liudu Ji Jing.