Cunda's Offering, and the Secret Treasury

At that time there was, among the assembly, an upāsaka — the son of an artisan of the city of Kuśinagara — named Cunda, together with fifteen others of his own kind. Wishing that the world might obtain good fruit, he rose from his seat, casting off his own composed bearing, bared his right shoulder, set his right knee upon the ground, joined his palms toward the Buddha, weeping and shedding tears, bowed his head to the Buddha's feet, and said to the Buddha: "I beg only that the World-Honored One and the assembly of monks, out of compassion, accept our final offering, for the sake of saving countless beings. World-Honored One, from this day we shall have no lord, no kin, no one to save us, no one to protect us, no refuge, no destination; we are poor and famished, and we wish to beg from the Tathāgata the food that is yet to come. We beg only that, out of compassion, you accept our humble offering, and only then enter parinirvāṇa. World-Honored One, it is as when a kṣatriya, a brāhmaṇa, a vaiśya, or a śūdra, being poor, travels far to another country and labors there at farming, obtaining a well-trained ox and fertile, level fields free of salt-flats, weeds, and stumps, and hopes only for rain to fall from heaven. The well-trained ox is a likeness for the seven virtues of body and speech; the fertile, level fields are a likeness for wisdom; the clearing away of salt-flats, weeds, and stumps is a likeness for the removal of affliction. World-Honored One, I now have in myself this trained ox, these fertile fields, this ground already cleared of stumps, and I hope only for the sweet rain of the Tathāgata's Dharma. It is I who am the poor one among the four classes, poor in the wealth of the peerless Dharma. I beg only that you, out of compassion, put an end to our poverty and hardship, and rescue the countless beings still in anguish. Though what I now offer is meager, I hope it may be enough to satisfy the Tathāgata and the whole assembly. I now have no lord, no kin, no refuge; I beg only that you look on me with the same tenderness you show Rāhula."

Then the World-Honored One, possessed of the knowledge of all modes, the peerless tamer of beings, said to Cunda: "Excellent, excellent! I will now put an end to your poverty; the peerless rain of the Dharma will fall upon the field of your body, and cause the sprout of the Dharma to grow within it. You now wish, through me, to obtain long life, radiance, strength, ease, and eloquence; I shall grant you constant life, radiance, strength, ease, and unobstructed eloquence. Why is this? Cunda, there are two kinds of food-offering whose fruit is exactly the same. What are the two? The first is the offering received just before attaining unsurpassed, complete awakening; the second is the offering received just before entering nirvāṇa. I am now accepting your final offering, so that you may fulfill the perfection of giving."

Cunda then said to the Buddha: "What the Buddha has said — that the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same — this cannot be right. Why is this? The one who received the first offering had not yet exhausted affliction, had not yet accomplished the knowledge of all modes, and could not yet cause beings to fulfill the perfection of giving; the one who receives the last offering has already exhausted affliction, has already accomplished the knowledge of all modes, and can cause beings everywhere to fulfill the perfection of giving. The one who received the first offering was simply a sentient being; the one who receives the last offering is a god among gods. The one who received the first offering had a body that eats mixed food, a body of affliction, a final body, an impermanent body; the one who receives the last offering has a body free of affliction, a body of vajra, a Dharma-body, a permanent body, a boundless body. How, then, can it be said that the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same? The one who received the first offering had not yet fulfilled the perfections from giving up through wisdom, and had only the fleshly eye, not yet the buddha-eye or the wisdom-eye; the one who receives the last offering has already fulfilled the perfections from giving up through wisdom, complete with the buddha-eye and the wisdom-eye. How, then, can it be said that the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same? World-Honored One, the one who received the first offering ate it, took it into his stomach, and digested it, gaining life, radiance, strength, ease, and unobstructed eloquence; the one who receives the last offering will not eat it, will not digest it, and gains none of these five results. How, then, can it be said that the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same?"

The Buddha said: "Good son, the Tathāgata has, throughout immeasurable, boundless asaṃkhyeya kalpas, never had a body that eats food, a body of affliction, or a final body — only a permanent body, a Dharma-body, a body of vajra. Good son, it is only one who has not yet seen buddha-nature who is said to have a body of affliction, a body that eats mixed food, a final body. When the bodhisattva received that first food, he entered the vajra samādhi, and once that food was digested, he immediately saw buddha-nature and attained unsurpassed, complete awakening; this is why I say the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same. At that time the bodhisattva destroyed the four māras; now, entering nirvāṇa, I likewise destroy the four māras; this is why I say the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same. At that time the bodhisattva, though he had not yet expounded the twelvefold scriptures at length, had already penetrated them fully; now, entering nirvāṇa, I will expound them at length, distinguishing them for the sake of beings; this is why I say the fruit of these two offerings is exactly the same. Good son, the Tathāgata's body has, throughout immeasurable asaṃkhyeya kalpas, never taken any food or drink at all. For the sake of the śrāvakas it is said that he first received the rice-milk offered by the two cowherd girls Nandā and Nandabalā, and only then attained unsurpassed, complete awakening — but in truth I did not eat it. I am now accepting your final offering for the sake of this whole assembly gathered here; but in truth I am not eating it either."

When the assembly heard that the World-Honored One had, on behalf of the whole gathering, accepted Cunda's final offering, they rejoiced and leapt for joy, and praised him together with one voice: "Excellent, excellent! How rare you are, Cunda! The name you bear is no empty title — the name Cunda means one who understands the subtle meaning, and you have now established just such a great meaning; in accordance with the truth, your name was given for its meaning, and hence you are called Cunda. In this very life you have gained great renown and benefit, and your virtuous aspiration is now fulfilled. How wondrous, Cunda! Born among humankind, you have obtained a peerless benefit exceedingly hard to obtain. Excellent, Cunda! Just as the udumbara flower is rare in this world, so a buddha's appearance in the world is exceedingly rare; to encounter a buddha and give rise to faith and hear the Dharma is rarer still; and to accomplish the very last offering as the Buddha draws near his parinirvāṇa is rarer even than that. Homage to you, Cunda! Homage to you, Cunda! You have now fulfilled the perfection of giving; you are like the autumn moon on the fifteenth night, pure and full, free of every cloud, looked up to by every being without exception — you are just the same now, looked up to by all of us. The Buddha has accepted your final offering, and you have fulfilled the perfection of giving. Homage to you, Cunda! And so we say you are like the moon at its very fullest, looked up to by every being without exception. Homage to you, Cunda! Though you bear a human body, your mind is like a buddha's mind. You, Cunda, are now truly a child of the Buddha, no different at all from Rāhula." Then the assembly spoke this verse:

"Though you were born into the human path,
you have already surpassed the sixth heaven —
we, and this whole assembly,
now bow our heads and beg you.

The most excellent one among humankind
is now about to enter parinirvāṇa;
you should have pity on us —
we beg you, quickly entreat the Buddha

to remain long in the world,
bringing benefit to countless beings,
proclaiming the sweet Dharma of nectar
that wisdom itself has praised.

If you do not entreat the Buddha,
our own lives will not remain whole;
for this reason you should act for us,
and bow to entreat the Tamer of beings."

Then Cunda rejoiced and leapt for joy, as a person might whose father and mother, suddenly dead, had just as suddenly come back to life — Cunda's joy was just the same. He rose again, bowed to the Buddha, and spoke this verse:

"How joyful, to have gained my own true benefit,
to have obtained so well a human body,
to have swept away craving, anger, and the rest,
and forever left the three evil destinies behind.

How joyful, to have gained my own true benefit,
to have come upon a heap of gold and jewels,
to have encountered the Tamer of beings,
and no longer fear falling among the animals.

The Buddha is like the udumbara flower —
to encounter him and give rise to faith is hard;
having encountered him, I have planted roots of goodness,
and left the suffering of the hungry ghosts forever behind,
and lessened, too, the ranks of the asuras.

A mustard seed thrown to land on a needle's point —
a buddha's appearing is harder even than this;
and by this act of fulfilling the perfection of giving
I cross beyond the round of birth and death for gods and humans alike.

The Buddha is untouched by worldly things,
as a lotus flower stands untouched by the water it grows in;
he has thoroughly cut off the seed of the summit of existence,
and forever crossed beyond the stream of birth and death.

To be born into the world as a human is hard;
to encounter a buddha's era is hard as well —
it is like a blind turtle in the great ocean
chancing upon a single floating log with a hole in it.

May the food I now offer
bring a peerless reward —
may every knot of affliction
be broken, and hold together no more.

I do not seek, here in this place,
rebirth as a god or a human;
and even were such a thing given to me,
my heart would take no pleasure in it.

That the Tathāgata has accepted my offering
fills me with joy beyond measure —
it is like the eraṇḍa flower
giving off the fragrance of sandalwood.

My own self is like the eraṇḍa,
and the Tathāgata's acceptance of my offering
is like sandalwood's fragrance issuing from it —
this is why I am filled with joy.

I have now obtained a reward in this very life,
the most excellent, wondrous place there is —
Śakra, Brahmā, and every god
have all come to make offering to me.

Every being throughout every world
has now given rise to anguish,
knowing that the World-Honored One
is about to enter parinirvāṇa.

They cry out in loud voices, saying:
"The world has no one left to tame it" —
you should not abandon sentient beings,
but look on them as your own only child.

The Tathāgata, here among the saṅgha,
proclaims the peerless Dharma,
like a mountain of jewels, Sumeru,
set at rest within the great ocean.

The Buddha's wisdom can rightly cut through
the darkness of our own ignorance,
like clouds arising in open sky
that bring, in the end, a cooling relief.

The Tathāgata can rightly remove
every kind of affliction,
like the sun when it rises
dispersing the clouds, its light shining everywhere.

All these beings here
weep until their faces swell,
every one of them swept along
by the flood-waters of birth and death.

For this reason, World-Honored One,
you should lengthen the faith of beings,
and, to put an end to the suffering of birth and death,
remain long in the world."

The Buddha said to Cunda: "It is so, it is so, just as you have said. A buddha's appearance in the world is as rare as the udumbara flower; to encounter a buddha and give rise to faith is rarer still; and to accomplish, as the Buddha draws near his parinirvāṇa, the very last food-offering and fulfill the perfection of giving through it is rarer even than that. But you, Cunda, should not now give way to excessive grief; you should instead rejoice and leap for joy, glad and fortunate to have had the chance to make this final offering to the Tathāgata and accomplish the perfection of giving in full. You should not ask the Buddha to remain long in the world. You should now observe that every buddha's own domain is entirely impermanent, and that every conditioned thing's nature and mark are just the same." He then spoke this verse for Cunda's sake:

"Throughout every world,
whatever is born returns to death;
however immeasurable a lifespan may be,
it must, in the end, come to its close.

Whatever flourishes must decline,
whatever comes together must part;
the prime of youth does not linger long,
flourishing beauty is assailed by sickness,
life is swallowed up by death —
there is no thing at all that remains constant.

Even kings who hold sovereign power,
whose might has no equal,
are all subject to change —
and a lifespan is just the same.

The wheel of manifold suffering has no edge,
turning on and on without rest;
the three realms are all impermanent,
and in none of these states of existence is there any true joy.

The very nature and mark of every path of existence
is, in every case, empty and without substance —
a thing subject to destruction, turning on and on,
forever accompanied by care and affliction.

Terror, every kind of fault,
old age, sickness, death, and decay —
these are without number,
easily destroyed, assailed as though by an enemy.

Wrapped about by affliction
as a silkworm is wrapped in its own cocoon —
what person of wisdom
could take delight in such a place?

This body is a mass of suffering,
impure in every part,
a fetter, a swelling, a wound,
with no true benefit at its root.

Up to the very bodies of the gods,
every one is just the same;
every desire is impermanent,
and so I hold none of them dear.

Freed of desire, having thought it through well,
I have realized the truth itself;
having finally cut off existence at its root,
this very day I shall enter nirvāṇa.

I have crossed to the far shore of existence,
and have already passed beyond every suffering;
and so, at this very moment,
I receive nothing but the finest joy.

For this reason
I have realized the boundary beyond all vain discourse,
and forever cut every fetter away —
this very day I enter nirvāṇa.

I have no old age, no sickness, no death,
and my lifespan cannot be exhausted;
my entering nirvāṇa now
is like a great fire going out.

Cunda, you should not
try to fathom the Tathāgata's meaning this way —
you should instead observe the Tathāgata's abiding
as though it were Mount Sumeru itself.

My entering nirvāṇa now
is my receiving the very highest joy —
this is simply how it is for every buddha,
and so you should weep no more."

Cunda then said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, it is so, it is so, truly as your holy teaching says. My own wisdom is as slight as a mosquito's or a gnat's — how could I possibly fathom the profound meaning of the Tathāgata's parinirvāṇa? World-Honored One, I have now, together with great nāga-like bodhisattva-mahāsattvas who have cut off every taint, including the Dharma-prince Mañjuśrī — World-Honored One, it is as when a young child newly gone forth into homelessness, though not yet fully ordained, is already counted among the saṅgha. I am just the same: by the spiritual power of the Buddha and the bodhisattvas, I have come to be counted among these great bodhisattvas. This is why I now wish the Tathāgata to remain long in the world, and not enter parinirvāṇa. It is like a starving person who could never bring himself to vomit up food once eaten — I wish the World-Honored One to be just the same, abiding forever in the world, never entering parinirvāṇa."

The Dharma-prince Mañjuśrī then said to Cunda: "Cunda, you should not now speak this way, wishing the Tathāgata to abide forever in the world and never enter parinirvāṇa, like that starving man who could never bring himself to vomit. You should now observe the nature and mark of every conditioned thing; observing them in this way, you will attain the samādhi of emptiness. If you wish to seek the true Dharma, you should train in just this way."

Cunda asked: "Mañjuśrī, the Tathāgata is the most honored and most excellent being among gods and humans — how could such a Tathāgata be a conditioned thing? If he were a conditioned thing, he would be a thing subject to arising and ceasing, like a bubble on water, arising and vanishing in an instant, coming and going, turning like a wheel — and every conditioned thing is just the same. I have heard that the lifespan of the gods is exceedingly long — how is it, then, that the World-Honored One, a god among gods, has so short a lifespan, not even a hundred years? It is like the headman of a village who holds sovereign power, able through that power to command other people; once his merit is exhausted, he afterward becomes poor and lowly, held in contempt by others, and made to serve at their command. Why is this? Because he has lost his power. The World-Honored One would be just the same, were he identical with conditioned things — and one identical with conditioned things cannot be called a god among gods. Why is this? Because every conditioned thing is itself the very stuff of birth and death. For this reason, Mañjuśrī, do not regard the Tathāgata as identical with conditioned things. Furthermore, Mañjuśrī, do you say the Tathāgata is identical with conditioned things knowingly, or without knowing? Even granting that the Tathāgata were identical with conditioned things, one could not then call him, throughout the three realms, a god among gods, a sovereign lord of the Dharma. It is like a human king who has a great strongman, whose strength is a match for a thousand men, whom no one else is able to overpower, so that this one man is said to be worth a thousand. Such a strongman, beloved by the king, is granted rank and stipend, and rewards come to him as a matter of course. The reason he is called a match for a thousand is not necessarily that his strength alone can equal a thousand men, but that his various skills together are enough to overcome a thousand — and so he is called their match. The Tathāgata is just the same: he has subdued the māra of affliction, the māra of the aggregates, the māra of the heavens, and the māra of death, and this is why the Tathāgata is called the honored one of the three realms, just as that strongman is called the match for a thousand. It is by this cause and condition that he has accomplished, in full, every kind of immeasurable, genuine virtue, and is called Tathāgata, Worthy One, Perfectly Awakened One. Mañjuśrī, you should not now imagine or discriminate the Tathāgata's own nature as identical with conditioned things.

"It is like a wealthy elder whose son is born, and a fortune-teller reads in him the mark of a short life. On hearing this, the parents, knowing he will not be fit to carry on the family line, no longer cherish or value him, and look on him as though he were mere straw. One who is fated to a short life is not held in reverence by monks, brāhmaṇas, men or women, young or old. If the Tathāgata were identical with conditioned things, he too would not be revered by any being throughout the world, among gods or humans, and the unchanging, undiffering, true Dharma he teaches would find no one to receive it. For this reason, Mañjuśrī, one should not say that the Tathāgata is identical with any conditioned thing.

"Furthermore, Mañjuśrī, it is like a poor woman with no household and no one to protect her, further beset by sickness, hunger, and thirst, wandering about begging, who lodges for a night at another's inn and there gives birth to a child, only to be driven out by the innkeeper. Not long after giving birth, she carries the child in her arms, wishing to reach another country. Along the way she meets a violent storm, cold and hardship assailing her together, and is bitten again and again by mosquitoes, gnats, wasps, and venomous insects; coming to the Ganges, she carries the child in her arms to cross it, but the current is too swift and will not release her, and mother and child are swept away together and drown. Because of the merit of that woman's loving-kindness, she is reborn, after death, in the Brahmā heaven. Mañjuśrī, if a good son wishes to protect the true Dharma, he should not say the Tathāgata is identical with conditioned things, nor that he is not identical with them — he should instead only reproach himself, saying: 'I am foolish and ignorant, and do not yet have the wisdom-eye; the Tathāgata's true Dharma is beyond conceptual thought.' For this reason one should not assert outright that the Tathāgata is definitely conditioned, or definitely unconditioned. If one has correct view, one should say that the Tathāgata is definitely unconditioned. Why is this? Because doing so gives rise to wholesome states in beings, and gives rise to compassion. It is like that poor woman at the Ganges who gave up her own body and life out of love for her child. Good son, a bodhisattva who protects the Dharma should be just the same: rather give up body and life than say the Tathāgata is identical with the conditioned — one should say instead that the Tathāgata is identical with the unconditioned. By saying the Tathāgata is identical with the unconditioned, one attains unsurpassed, complete awakening, just as that woman attained rebirth in the Brahmā heaven. Why is this? Because of protecting the Dharma. What is meant by protecting the Dharma? It means saying that the Tathāgata is identical with the unconditioned. Good son, such a person, though not seeking liberation, will have liberation come to them of itself — just as that poor woman, without seeking the Brahmā heaven, had the Brahmā heaven come to her of itself.

"Mañjuśrī, it is like a person traveling far, exhausted along the way, who lodges for the night at another's house; while he is asleep, a great fire suddenly breaks out in the room, and he wakes with a start, and thinks to himself: 'I am certainly going to die now, beyond doubt.' Out of a sense of shame, he wraps his body in his own robe, and dies; he is then reborn in the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven. From that time on, he becomes the Great Brahmā King eighty times over, and is reborn as a wheel-turning king among humans for a hundred thousand ages, never again falling into the three evil destinies, and is reborn again and again only in places of ease and happiness. For this reason, Mañjuśrī, if a good son has any sense of shame, he should not regard the Buddha as identical with conditioned things. Mañjuśrī, it is heterodox teachers of wrong view who may say the Tathāgata is identical with the conditioned; a monk who keeps the precepts should not give rise to such a conditioned notion regarding the Tathāgata. Whoever says the Tathāgata is conditioned speaks falsely, and it should be known that such a person, upon death, falls into hell, just as a person settles into his own home. Mañjuśrī, the Tathāgata is truly and genuinely the unconditioned Dharma, and one should not say that he is conditioned. From this day on, amid birth and death, you should abandon ignorance and seek right knowledge, and understand that the Tathāgata is precisely the unconditioned. If you are able to view the Tathāgata in this way, you will attain, in full, the thirty-two marks, and swiftly accomplish unsurpassed, complete awakening."

The Dharma-prince Mañjuśrī then praised Cunda, saying: "Excellent, excellent, good son! You have now built the very cause of long life, knowing the Tathāgata to be the permanent Dharma, the unchanging Dharma, the unconditioned Dharma. In thus skillfully concealing the Tathāgata's conditioned appearance, you are like that man in the fire who, out of shame, covered his body with his own robe — and by that very wholesome intention was reborn in the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven, and became a Brahmā king and a wheel-turning sage-king, never falling into any evil destiny, forever receiving ease and happiness. You are just the same: because you have skillfully concealed the Tathāgata's conditioned appearance, in ages to come you will surely obtain the thirty-two marks, the eighty minor characteristics, the eighteen unique qualities, and immeasurable life, will not remain in birth and death, will forever receive ease and happiness, and will, before long, accomplish the state of the Worthy One, the Perfectly Awakened One. Cunda, the Tathāgata will himself, in what follows, expound this at length; you and I should both, for now, go on concealing the Tathāgata's conditioned appearance. Let us set aside, for the moment, the question of conditioned and unconditioned — you should now quickly, in good time, offer the meal; such a swift offering is the very best among offerings. If any monk, nun, upāsaka, or upāsikā, exhausted from a long journey, needs anything at all, one should give it to them promptly and without impurity. An offering given this swiftly is itself the very root and seed of the perfection of giving fulfilled in full. Cunda, if one is to make a final offering to the Buddha and the saṅgha, whether much or little, whether sufficient or not, one should act swiftly, without delay — the Tathāgata is on the very point of entering parinirvāṇa."

Cunda replied: "Mañjuśrī, why is it that you now covet this meal so, speaking of much or little, sufficient or not, urging me to offer it at once? Mañjuśrī, the Tathāgata once endured six years of ascetic practice and sustained himself through it — how much more so, then, through this brief moment today? Mañjuśrī, do you truly believe that the Tathāgata, the Perfectly Awakened One, will actually eat this food? But I am certain: the Tathāgata's body is itself the Dharma-body, not a body that eats."

The Buddha then said to Mañjuśrī: "It is so, it is so, just as Cunda has said. Excellent, Cunda! You have already accomplished a subtle, great wisdom, and have skillfully entered the profound scriptures of the Great Vehicle."

Mañjuśrī said to Cunda: "If you hold that the Tathāgata is unconditioned, then the Tathāgata's own body is itself long life; if you understand it this way, it pleases the Buddha." Cunda replied: "The Tathāgata is not pleased by me alone — he is equally pleased by every being." Mañjuśrī said: "The Tathāgata is equally pleased with you, and with me, and with every being." Cunda replied: "You should not say the Tathāgata is 'pleased.' To be pleased is itself an inverted notion; where there is an inverted notion, there is birth and death; where there is birth and death, there is a conditioned thing. For this reason, Mañjuśrī, do not think the Tathāgata is conditioned. If you say the Tathāgata is conditioned, then you and I are both caught in inversion together. Mañjuśrī, the Tathāgata has no notion of fond attachment at all. Fond attachment is like a mother cow's love for her calf: though hungry and thirsty, she goes in search of water and grass, but whether she finds enough or not, she suddenly turns back to her calf all the same. The buddhas, the World-Honored Ones, have no such notion — they regard every being equally, as they regard Rāhula. Such regard is itself the very domain of the buddhas' own wisdom. Mañjuśrī, it is like a king skilled at driving a four-horse chariot who wishes a donkey-cart to keep pace with it — there is no such possibility. You and I are just the same: to wish to fathom the Tathāgata's subtle and profound depths is likewise no such possibility. Mañjuśrī, it is like a garuḍa soaring immeasurable yojanas into the sky, who looks down upon the great ocean and sees clearly every creature of the water — fish, turtles, crocodiles, tortoises, dragons — and sees also his own reflection, as clearly as forms seen in a bright mirror. Ordinary people of little wisdom cannot fathom what such a bird sees; you and I are just the same, unable to fathom the Tathāgata's own wisdom." Mañjuśrī said to Cunda: "It is so, it is so, just as you have said. It is not that I failed to understand this matter myself — I only wished to test you, and your standing among the bodhisattvas."

At that time the World-Honored One sent forth from his face rays of many colors, their light shining upon Mañjuśrī's own body. As soon as Mañjuśrī encountered this light, he knew at once what it meant, and said to Cunda: "The Tathāgata now shows this auspicious sign; before long he will surely enter parinirvāṇa. You should now offer, without delay, the final offering you have already prepared, to the Buddha and the whole assembly. Cunda, know that the Tathāgata's sending forth this light of many colors is not without a reason." Hearing this, Cunda's heart was overcome, and he fell silent.

The Buddha said to Cunda: "Offer to the Buddha and the assembly what you have prepared — now is exactly the time; the Tathāgata is on the very point of entering parinirvāṇa." He said this a second time, and a third time as well.

Hearing the Buddha's words, Cunda raised his voice and wept, saying through his sobs: "How bitter, how bitter — the world is empty." He then said to the assembly: "Let us all now, together, throw our five limbs to the ground, and with one voice entreat the Buddha not to enter parinirvāṇa."

The World-Honored One then said again to Cunda: "Do not weep so greatly, wearing your heart out. You should observe that this body is like a plantain tree, a mirage in the summer heat, a bubble on water, a conjured illusion, a city of gandharvas, an unfired clay vessel, a flash of lightning, and also like a picture drawn on water, a prisoner awaiting execution, a piece of ripe fruit or cut meat, like a length of thread that runs out on the loom, like a pestle rising and falling — you should observe that every conditioned thing is like food mixed with poison, and that conditioned things are full of many faults."

Cunda then said again to the Buddha: "If the Tathāgata does not wish to remain long in the world, how could I not weep? How bitter, how bitter — the world is empty. I beg only that the World-Honored One, out of compassion for us and for all beings, remain long in the world, and not enter parinirvāṇa."

The Buddha said to Cunda: "You should not now speak this way, that out of compassion for me you wish me to remain long in the world. It is precisely out of compassion for you and for all beings that I now wish to enter parinirvāṇa. Why is this? This is simply how it is for every buddha; conditioned things are just the same. And so the buddhas speak this verse: 'Every conditioned thing has, by its very nature, no permanence; having arisen, it does not abide; its cessation alone is bliss.' Cunda, you should now observe that all conditioned dharmas together are without self, impermanent, and do not abide, and that this body has many countless faults, like a bubble on water — this is why you should not weep now."

Cunda then said again to the Buddha: "It is so, it is so, truly as your honored teaching says. Though I know the Tathāgata's entering parinirvāṇa is a skillful manifestation, I cannot help but hold some sorrow in my heart; and yet, reflecting further, joy arises in me as well."

The Buddha praised Cunda, saying: "Excellent, excellent! You are able to know that the Tathāgata's showing himself as like other beings and entering parinirvāṇa is itself a skillful means. Cunda, listen now: it is like the sārasa birds, who in the month of spring all gather together at Lake Anavatapta — every buddha is just the same, all arriving at this same place. Cunda, you should not now try to reckon whether a buddha's life is long or short; every dharma is like an illusion, and the Tathāgata, dwelling within it, remains untouched by it through the power of skillful means. Why is this? This is simply how it is for every buddha. Cunda, I am now accepting the offering you have made, so that you may cross beyond the many streams of birth and death and existence. If any human or god makes this final offering to me, every one of them will attain an unshakable reward, and forever receive ease and happiness. Why is this? Because I am the true field of merit for all beings. If you likewise wish to become a field of merit for beings, prepare your offering quickly, and do not delay any longer."

Then Cunda, for the sake of bringing beings to liberation, lowered his head, swallowing his tears, and said to the Buddha: "Excellent, World-Honored One! When I myself am able to become a field of merit, I shall then be able to fully understand the Tathāgata's parinirvāṇa, and what is not his parinirvāṇa. As for us now, and the śrāvakas and pratyekabuddhas as well, our wisdom is like that of a mosquito or an ant — we truly cannot fathom the Tathāgata's parinirvāṇa, or what is not his parinirvāṇa."

Then Cunda and his companions, sorrowful and weeping, circled the Tathāgata, burning incense and scattering flowers, offering their reverence with their whole heart. He then rose and departed together with Mañjuśrī to prepare the meal.

Not long after he had gone, the ground here quaked in six ways, and the same was true even up to the Brahmā worlds. There are two kinds of earthquake: the ordinary earthquake, and the great earthquake. A small tremor is called an earthquake; a great tremor is called a great earthquake. One with a faint sound is called an earthquake; one with a great sound is called a great earthquake. One in which the earth alone moves is called an earthquake; one in which the mountains, rivers, trees, and the great ocean's waters all move together is called a great earthquake. One that moves only in a single direction is called an earthquake; one that turns and revolves all around is called a great earthquake. Movement alone is called an earthquake; a movement that also shakes the very minds of beings is called a great earthquake. When the bodhisattva first descended from the Tuṣita Heaven into Jambudvīpa, this was called a great earthquake; likewise at his birth, at his going forth, at his attainment of unsurpassed, complete awakening, at his turning of the wheel of the Dharma, and at his parinirvāṇa — each of these is called a great earthquake. Today, as the Tathāgata is about to enter parinirvāṇa, this is why the earth now shakes with such a great earthquake.

At that time the devas, nāgas, gandharvas, asuras, garuḍas, kinnaras, mahoragas, humans, and non-humans, hearing this, felt the hair stand up on their bodies, and together, with one voice, wept and spoke this verse:

"We bow our heads in reverence to the Tamer of beings,
and now entreat him:
to be parted from this sage among humans
would leave us forever without anyone to save us.

Now, seeing the Buddha's parinirvāṇa,
we are sunk in a sea of suffering,
our hearts filled with sorrow and anguish,
like a calf that has lost its mother.

Poor and destitute, with no one to save us,
like a person overcome by illness
with no physician, following only their own mind,
eating what should never be eaten.

Sentient beings, sick with affliction,
forever harmed by wrong views,
far from any physician of the Dharma,
swallow poisonous medicine instead —
and for this very reason
the Buddha, the World-Honored One, should not abandon us.

Like a country with no sovereign,
whose people all go hungry —
we are just the same,
having lost our shelter and the flavor of the Dharma.

Now hearing of the Buddha's parinirvāṇa,
our minds are thrown into confusion,
like this very earth now quaking,
losing all sense of direction.

The great sage enters parinirvāṇa,
the sun of the Buddha falls to the ground,
the waters of the Dharma run dry entirely —
we shall surely die.

As the Tathāgata enters parinirvāṇa,
every being is thrown into the deepest anguish,
like the son of a great elder
newly bereaved of both his parents.

If, once the Tathāgata enters parinirvāṇa,
he should never return,
then we, and every being,
will be left entirely without anyone to save us.

As the Tathāgata enters parinirvāṇa,
even the very animals
are all filled with sorrow and terror,
their hearts scorched by anguish.

How, on this day,
could we not be filled with anguish ourselves,
seeing the Tathāgata abandon us,
as one might spit out phlegm and cast it away?

It is like the sun when it first rises,
its light blazing forth so brightly
that it illuminates all things of itself,
and dispels every darkness in doing so.

The Tathāgata's own light of spiritual power
can remove our every anguish,
standing here among the great assembly
like Mount Sumeru itself."

"World-Honored One, it is like a king who raises up his sons, each handsome in form, whom he cherishes constantly in his heart, first teaching them every skill and art until they have mastered it all — and only then hands them over to the executioner to be killed. World-Honored One, we are today the Dharma-prince's own children, having received the Buddha's own teaching and instruction and thereby gained right view; we beg you not to abandon us — should you abandon us now, we would be just like that king's sons. We beg only that you remain long in the world, and not enter parinirvāṇa. World-Honored One, it is like a person who has studied every treatise well, and yet still comes to feel dread before this very treatise. The Tathāgata is just the same: having penetrated every dharma completely, he still gives rise to dread before those very dharmas. If the Tathāgata were to remain long in the world, proclaiming the flavor of the nectar of the Dharma to satisfy everyone fully, then beings such as these would no longer fear falling into hell. World-Honored One, it is like a person newly begun in some trade who is seized by an official and shut up in prison. Someone asks him: 'What are you now enduring?' He answers: 'I am now enduring the greatest anguish; if I could only be released, I would find ease.' The World-Honored One is just the same: for our sake he has undertaken every kind of ascetic practice, and yet we ourselves have still not been freed from the anguish of birth and death — how, then, could the Tathāgata alone come to receive ease? World-Honored One, it is like a king of physicians, well versed in medicinal remedies, who teaches his own secret formulas only to his own son, and not to any outside student. The Tathāgata is just the same: he teaches the profound and secret treasury only to Mañjuśrī alone, abandoning the rest of us without a thought of pity. The Tathāgata should have no stinginess at all where the Dharma is concerned — and yet, like that king of physicians who teaches only his own son and not any outside student — that physician withholds his teaching only because his mind is caught up in winning and losing, and so keeps it secret; the Tathāgata's mind has never once been caught up in winning or losing — why, then, does he fail to teach us as well? We beg only that he remain long in the world, and not enter parinirvāṇa. World-Honored One, it is like the old, the young, and the sick, who leave the good, level road and travel instead along a dangerous path, rough and difficult, enduring much hardship along the way — until another person comes, and, seeing them with compassion, shows them the level, good road instead. World-Honored One, we are just the same: the young stand for those whose Dharma-body has not yet grown to maturity, the old stand for those still weighed down by heavy affliction, the sick stand for those not yet freed from birth and death, and the dangerous path stands for the twenty-five states of existence. We beg only that the Tathāgata show and guide us along the true, level road of nectar, remaining long in the world, and not entering parinirvāṇa."

The World-Honored One then said to the monks: "You monks should not weep and lament like ordinary people or the gods; you should instead strive diligently, holding your minds to right mindfulness." Hearing the Buddha say this, the devas, humans, and asuras stopped their weeping — like a person who, having just buried a child, finally ceases to weep. The World-Honored One then spoke this verse for the whole assembly:

"You should open your minds now,
and not give way to excessive grief —
this is simply how it is for every buddha,
and so you should remain at peace.

Delight in conduct free of heedlessness,
guard your minds with right recollection,
keep far from every wrong action,
and comfort your minds to find true joy."

"Furthermore, monks, if you have any doubt at all, ask it now… I will settle it for you in accordance with the truth, and will first proclaim to you the nectar of the Dharma, and only afterward enter parinirvāṇa. Monks, a buddha's appearance in the world is rare; a human body is hard to obtain; to encounter a buddha and give rise to faith is likewise hard; to bear what is hard to bear is hard as well; and to accomplish the moral precepts in full, without any flaw, and attain the fruit of arhatship, is hard too — as hard as seeking gold dust or the udumbara flower. You monks have already left behind the eight difficult conditions and obtained a human body — do not let this encounter with me pass by in vain. Throughout ages past I have undertaken every kind of ascetic practice, and have now attained this peerless skillful means; for your sake, throughout immeasurable kalpas, I have given up my own body, hands, feet, head, eyes, marrow, and brain — and so you should not be heedless now."

"You monks, how is the jeweled city of the true Dharma to be adorned, complete with every kind of meritorious treasure — precepts, concentration, and wisdom as its walls, moats, and battlements? Now that you have encountered this jeweled city of the Buddha-dharma, you should not take hold of what is worthless and false instead — it would be like a merchant leader who, having come upon a true city of treasure, gathers up mere tiles and rubble and returns home with those instead. You are just the same, having encountered a city of treasure and taking hold of what is worthless. You monks, do not settle for a lesser state of mind and call it sufficient. Though you have now gone forth from the household life, you have not yet given rise to a genuine longing for the Great Vehicle. You monks, though your bodies now wear the dyed robes of a monastic, your minds have not yet been dyed by the pure Dharma of the Great Vehicle. You monks, though you go out begging for food, passing through many places, you have never yet once begged for the food of the Great Vehicle's own Dharma. You monks, though you have shaved off your hair and beard, you have not yet, for the sake of the true Dharma, shaved away your own mental fetters. You monks, I must now teach you the plain truth: at this very moment, while I am still present and the whole assembly is gathered together in harmony, the Tathāgata's own Dharma-nature is true and free of any inversion — and so you should strive diligently, gathering your minds and, with courage, break apart your mental fetters, for once the sun of the ten powers has set, you will be covered over by ignorance."

"Monks, it is like the great earth, the mountains, and the medicinal herbs, all put to use for the sake of beings; my own Dharma is just the same, bringing forth the fine flavor of the nectar of the Dharma, and becoming, for beings, the true medicine for every kind of affliction and sickness. I shall now cause all beings, together with my own children, the fourfold assembly, to abide securely within the secret treasury, and I myself shall likewise abide within it as I enter parinirvāṇa. What is meant by this secret treasury? It is like the three dots of the letter i: if they are joined together, they do not form the letter i; if they are simply set side by side in a row, they likewise do not form it — only when they are placed as the three eyes on Maheśvara's face do they come to form the letter i; if they remain entirely separate from one another, they likewise cannot form it. I am just the same: the Dharma of liberation is not, by itself, nirvāṇa; the Tathāgata's own body is not, by itself, nirvāṇa; the great prajñā is not, by itself, nirvāṇa; and these three dharmas, each remaining entirely distinct from the others, are not nirvāṇa either. It is only now, abiding within these three dharmas together, that I am, for the sake of beings, said to enter nirvāṇa — just as with the letter i in this world."

When the monks heard that the World-Honored One was surely about to enter parinirvāṇa, they were all overcome with sorrow, the hair standing up on their bodies, tears filling their eyes; they bowed their heads to the Buddha's feet, circled him countless times, and said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, you have well taught impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and no-self. World-Honored One, it is like how, among the tracks of every kind of creature, the elephant's track is supreme — the perception of impermanence is just the same, foremost among every kind of perception. Whoever cultivates it diligently is able to remove every craving for the desire realm, every craving for the form and formless realms, ignorance, arrogance, and even the perception of impermanence itself. World-Honored One, if the Tathāgata is free of the perception of impermanence, he should not now need to enter parinirvāṇa; but if he is not free of it, how can it be said that cultivating the perception of impermanence removes craving for the three realms, ignorance, arrogance, and the perception of impermanence itself? World-Honored One, it is like a farmer who, in the autumn months, ploughs his field deep, and is thereby able to remove every weed. The perception of impermanence is just the same, able to remove every craving for the desire realm, every craving for the form and formless realms, ignorance, arrogance, and the perception of impermanence itself. World-Honored One, it is like ploughing a field — autumn ploughing is the finest; and just as, among every kind of track, the elephant's track is the finest, so too, among every kind of perception, the perception of impermanence is the finest. World-Honored One, it is like an emperor who, knowing his own life is about to end, grants an amnesty throughout his realm, releasing every prisoner bound in confinement, and only then relinquishes his life. The Tathāgata should now do just the same: he should bring about the liberation of every being from ignorance and confinement, and only then enter parinirvāṇa. We ourselves have not yet been brought across — how, then, could the Tathāgata wish to abandon us now and enter parinirvāṇa?"

The Buddha then said to the monks: "Listen closely, listen closely. The simile of the drunken man you have just now invoked — you know only its words, but have not yet grasped its meaning. What is that meaning? Just as that drunken man, looking up at the sun and moon, though they are not truly spinning, gives rise to a perception that they are spinning — sentient beings are just the same: covered over by affliction and ignorance, they give rise to inverted minds, reckoning self as no-self, permanence as impermanence, purity as impurity, and bliss as suffering, all because they are covered over by affliction. Though they give rise to these perceptions, they have not grasped their true meaning — just like that drunken man, who, where there is no spinning at all, gives rise to a perception of spinning. Self here means the meaning of buddha; permanence means the meaning of the Dharma-body; bliss means the meaning of nirvāṇa; purity means the meaning of the Dharma. You monks, how can you speak of a perception of self as though it were itself arrogance and pride that keeps one turning through birth and death? If you say, 'We too cultivate the perceptions of impermanence, suffering, and no-self,' these three practices, as you have described them, have no true meaning at all. I shall now teach you a superior threefold practice. To reckon suffering as bliss, and bliss as suffering, is an inverted teaching. To reckon the impermanent as permanent, and the permanent as impermanent, is an inverted teaching. To reckon no-self as self, and self as no-self, is an inverted teaching. To reckon the impure as pure, and the pure as impure, is an inverted teaching. Having these four inverted teachings, such a person does not know how to rightly cultivate the dharmas at all."

"You monks give rise to a perception of bliss within what is suffering, a perception of permanence within what is impermanent, a perception of self within what is without self, and a perception of purity within what is impure. But there is also, in truth, a permanence, bliss, self, and purity belonging to the world, and a permanence, bliss, self, and purity belonging to what transcends the world. The dharmas of the world have the word but not the meaning; those that transcend the world have both the word and the meaning. Why is this? Because the dharmas of the world are subject to four inversions, they do not know the true meaning. Why is this? Because there is inversion of perception, inversion of mind, and inversion of view. Because of these three inversions, worldly people see suffering within what is bliss, see impermanence within what is permanent, see no-self within what is self, and see impurity within what is pure — this is called inversion. Because of this inversion, the world knows the word but not the meaning. What, then, is the true meaning? No-self is the name for birth and death; self is the name for the Tathāgata. Impermanence belongs to the śrāvakas and pratyekabuddhas; permanence is the Tathāgata's own Dharma-body. Suffering belongs to every heterodox teacher; bliss is itself nirvāṇa. Impurity is every conditioned dharma; purity is the true Dharma possessed by every buddha and bodhisattva. This is called freedom from inversion. Because it is free of inversion, it knows both the word and the meaning. If you wish to be free of the four inversions, you should understand permanence, bliss, self, and purity in just this way."

Then the monks said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, as the Buddha has said, one who is free of the four inversions comes to fully understand permanence, bliss, self, and purity. The Tathāgata is now forever free of the four inversions, and so has already fully understood permanence, bliss, self, and purity. If you have already fully understood permanence, bliss, self, and purity, why do you not remain for a kalpa, or even half a kalpa, teaching and guiding us so that we too may become free of the four inversions — instead of abandoning us now, wishing to enter parinirvāṇa? If the Tathāgata would look on us with care and give us instruction, we would receive it with our whole heart and cultivate it fully. If the Tathāgata enters parinirvāṇa, how could we go on dwelling together with this poisoned body of ours, cultivating pure conduct? We too should follow the Buddha, the World-Honored One, into parinirvāṇa."

The Buddha then said to the monks: "You should not speak this way. I have now entrusted the whole of the peerless true Dharma I possess to Mahākāśyapa. This Kāśyapa will become your great support, just as the Tathāgata has been a support for all beings; Mahākāśyapa will likewise become a support for you. It is like a great king, ruling over many lands, who, when he goes on a journey, entrusts the affairs of state entirely to his ministers. The Tathāgata is just the same: I have entrusted the whole of the true Dharma to Mahākāśyapa as well. You should know that the perceptions of impermanence and suffering you have cultivated until now are not themselves the ultimate truth. It is like a group of people who, in springtime, are bathing and boating for pleasure in a great pool, when one of them loses a lapis lazuli jewel, which sinks into the deep water. All of them then go into the water together, searching for the jewel, each one grasping at tiles, stones, grass, wood, and gravel, each thinking he has found the lapis lazuli, and coming up joyfully to display it — only to discover it is not the true jewel. All this time the true jewel has remained down in the water, and, by the jewel's own power, the water has become perfectly clear; and now the whole group can see the jewel resting there below, as clearly as looking up and seeing the moon's own form in open sky. At that time, one wise person among them, using skillful means, enters the water calmly and without haste, and retrieves the jewel at once. You monks should not cultivate the perceptions of impermanence, suffering, no-self, and impurity in this same mistaken way, taking them for the ultimate meaning — just like those people who each took tiles, stones, grass, wood, and gravel for the true jewel. You should instead learn skillful means well, and everywhere, at all times, cultivate the perception of self, and the perceptions of permanence, bliss, and purity. You should further understand that the outward form of the four contemplations you cultivated before was, in every case, itself an inversion. If you wish to cultivate these perceptions in a way that is truly, ultimately meaningful, you should be like that wise person who skillfully retrieved the true jewel — that is to say, the perception of self, and the perceptions of permanence, bliss, and purity."

The monks then said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, as the Buddha taught before: 'All dharmas are without self — you should cultivate and train in this. Having cultivated it, you will be free of the perception of self; being free of the perception of self, you will be free of arrogance; being free of arrogance, you will attain nirvāṇa.' What does this mean now?"

The Buddha said to the monks: "Excellent, excellent! You have asked about this meaning well, so as to resolve your own doubt yourselves. It is like a king, dull-witted and of little intelligence, who has a physician of a similarly stubborn and foolish disposition, whom the king, unable to tell the difference, rewards generously with rank and stipend. This physician treats every illness with nothing but milk, not even understanding the root cause of any disease; and though he claims to know the remedy of milk, he does not truly understand it at all — whether the illness is caused by wind, by cold, or by heat, whatever the ailment, he teaches the patient to drink milk in every case. The king cannot tell that this physician does not actually know good milk from bad, or whether it helps or harms. Then a brilliant physician arrives from a distant land, skilled in the eight branches of medicine, able to treat every illness well and versed in every kind of remedy. The old physician, unwilling to consult or learn from him, instead grows arrogant and contemptuous. The brilliant physician, for his part, attaches himself to the old physician, asking to become his student, seeking to learn the secret and profound art of medicine from him, and says to the old physician: 'I now ask you to be my teacher; I beg only that you explain and teach me fully.' The old physician answers: 'If you can serve me faithfully for forty-eight years, I will then teach you the art of medicine.' The brilliant physician accepts this condition: 'I shall do just as you say, I shall do just as you say — I will serve you to the very limit of my ability.' The old physician then brings this visiting physician together with him to an audience with the king. There the visiting physician explains to the king every kind of medical remedy and skill besides, saying: 'Great king, you should know how to discern well: this remedy of this kind can govern the state; this remedy of that kind can cure disease.' Hearing this, the king at once recognizes that the old physician is foolish and without wisdom, and has him driven out beyond the borders of the kingdom, and afterward shows the visiting physician all the more reverence. The visiting physician then thinks to himself: 'Now is exactly the time to teach the king.' He says to the king: 'Great king, if you truly cherish me, grant me one wish.' The king replies at once: 'Whatever you ask, even my own right arm or any other part of my body, I will grant it all to you.' The visiting physician says: 'Though the king would grant me his very body, I dare not ask for so much. What I ask instead is only this: that the king proclaim throughout the whole kingdom that, from this day forward, no one may take the old physician's remedy of milk. Why is this? Because that remedy is poisonous, and does great harm; whoever still takes it should be beheaded. Once the remedy of milk is forbidden, there will never again be anyone who dies wrongfully from it, and everyone will dwell always in ease and happiness — this is why I ask for this wish.' The king answers: 'What you ask is a small thing indeed,' and at once proclaims throughout the kingdom: 'No one who is ill within this kingdom is permitted to use milk as medicine; whoever does so shall be beheaded.' The visiting physician then compounds every kind of remedy from a blend of flavors — pungent, bitter, salty, sweet, and sour — and treats every illness with them, curing every one without exception. Not long afterward, the king himself falls ill, and summons this physician, saying: 'I am now gravely ill, suffering to the point of death — how should I be treated?' The physician examines the king's illness and determines that milk is exactly what is needed, and says to the king: 'For the illness you now suffer, you should drink milk. What I said before, forbidding milk, was a great falsehood. If you drink it now, it will cure your illness perfectly — your illness now is one of heat, and milk is exactly what is called for.' The king says to the physician: 'Have you gone mad? Or is it I who am feverish, that you should say milk can cure this illness? You once called it poison — why do you now tell me to drink it? Are you trying to deceive me? The physician I praised before, you called poison and had me drive away; now you call it good, and say it can cure illness best of all. By what you yourself have said, my original physician must surely have been better than you.' The visiting physician then says to the king: 'Great king, you should not speak this way. It is like a worm that eats through wood and happens to form what looks like a written character — the worm itself has no idea whether it is a character or not; a wise person, seeing it, would never claim the worm actually understands writing, nor be astonished by it. Great king, you should understand: that old physician was just the same — unable to distinguish one illness from another, he gave milk for every one of them, exactly like that worm's path happening to form a character. That former, old physician never truly understood whether milk was good or bad, helpful or harmful.' The king asks: 'In what way did he not understand it?' The visiting physician answers the king: 'This remedy of milk is at once a poison and a nectar. How can milk be called both poison and nectar? If the cow is one that has not eaten distiller's grain, slippery grass, or wheat husks, if her calf is gentle and well cared for, if she is pastured neither on high, dry ground nor in low, damp ground, if she drinks clear, flowing water, is not made to run about, is not kept in the same herd as a bull, and is fed and watered in proper measure, moving and resting as is fitting — then milk from such a cow can cure every illness, and is rightly called the wondrous nectar-medicine. Apart from milk of this kind, every other kind should be called a poison.' Hearing this, the great king praised the physician, saying: 'Excellent, excellent! Only from this day do I finally understand the good and the bad, the helpful and the harmful, in the remedy of milk.' He then drank it, and his illness was cured. He at once proclaimed throughout the whole kingdom that, from this day forward, everyone should drink the remedy of milk. On hearing this, the people of the kingdom were filled with resentment, saying to one another: 'Is the great king now possessed by some demon, or has he gone mad, that he should deceive us and now make us drink milk again?' Every one of the people, filled with resentment, gathered together at the king's palace. The king said to them: 'You should not be resentful toward me over this — whether milk is to be taken or not has always been entirely the physician's own teaching, and no fault of mine.' The great king and all the people then rejoiced and leapt for joy, and together showed the physician all the greater reverence, making offerings to him. Every one of the sick then drank the remedy of milk, and every illness was cured."

"You monks should know that the Tathāgata, the Worthy One, the Perfectly Awakened One, Perfect in Wisdom and Conduct, the Well-Gone One, Knower of the World, the Peerless Guide, Tamer of Beings, Teacher of Gods and Humans, Buddha, World-Honored One, is just the same: he is the great king of physicians, appearing in the world to subdue every heterodox teacher's own false remedy, and, standing among all the kings of the earth, proclaims: 'I am the king of physicians.' In order to subdue the heterodox teachers, he proclaims: 'There is no self, no person, no sentient being, no life, no rearing, no knower, no seer, no doer, no receiver.' Monks, you should understand that when these heterodox teachers speak of a self, it is exactly like that worm eating through wood and happening to form a character. This is why the Tathāgata, within the Buddha's own teaching, proclaims 'no-self' — he teaches this no-self for the sake of taming beings, and because he knows the right time to teach it. And when there is cause and condition for it, he equally teaches that there is a self. It is just like that skilled physician, who knew well when milk was medicine and when it was not — not at all like the self that ordinary, foolish people imagine for themselves. The self that ordinary, foolish people imagine is said to be as large as a thumb, or as small as a mustard seed, or as fine as a mote of dust; but the self the Tathāgata teaches is nothing at all like this — this is why it is said that all dharmas are without self, though this is not, in truth, an absolute absence of self. What, then, is this self? Whatever dharma is real, true, permanent, sovereign, a foundation, and unchanging in its own nature — this is called the self. Just as that great physician came to understand milk well, the Tathāgata is just the same: for the sake of beings, he teaches that there is, in truth, a real self among all dharmas. You, the fourfold assembly, should cultivate and train in this teaching just so."