The Goddess of Fortune, and Her Sister

"Furthermore, good son, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva's own noble conduct includes this: he observes this body, from head to foot, finding within it only hair, body-hair, nails, teeth, impure filth, skin, flesh, sinew, bone, spleen, kidneys, heart, lungs, liver, gall bladder, intestines, stomach, the two receptacles of raw and digested food, urine and feces, mucus, saliva, and tears, fat, marrow, and membrane, bone-marrow, pus, and blood, brain-matter and every vessel and vein. When the bodhisattva contemplates with single-minded attention in this way, he asks: who, here, is a self? To whom does this self belong? Where does it dwell? What belongs to this self?

He then thinks further: 'Is this bone the self? Or is the self apart from this bone?' The bodhisattva, at this point, strips away the skin and flesh, contemplating only the bare, white bone, and thinks further: 'The color of this bone varies — blue-black, yellow, red, white, and dove-gray — and a bony appearance of this kind, too, is not the self. Why is this? Because the self, likewise, is neither blue-black, nor yellow, nor red, nor white, nor dove-gray.' As the bodhisattva fixes his mind and contemplates in this way, he thereby cuts off entirely his own craving for physical form. He then thinks further: 'This bone, too, arises through cause and condition — the foot bone, resting upon the ankle bone; the ankle bone, resting upon the shin bone; the shin bone, resting upon the knee bone; the knee bone, resting upon the thigh bone; the thigh bone, resting upon the hip bone; the hip bone, resting upon the waist bone; the waist bone, resting upon the spine; the spine, resting upon the ribs, and, further, resting up upon the neck bone; the neck bone, resting upon the jaw bone; the jaw bone, resting upon the teeth, above which is the skull. And, further, upon the neck bone rests the shoulder bone; upon the shoulder bone rests the arm bone; upon the arm bone rests the wrist bone; upon the wrist bone rests the bones of the palm; upon the bones of the palm rest the bones of the fingers.' As the bodhisattva-mahāsattva contemplates in this way, every bone within the body comes apart, each from the others — and, attaining this contemplation, he thereby cuts off three cravings at once: craving for outward form, craving for bearing and gesture, and craving for the subtlety of touch.

"When the bodhisattva-mahāsattva contemplates the bone as blue-black, he sees this whole earth, in every direction — east, south, west, north, and the four intermediate directions, above and below — entirely taking on this same blue-black hue; and it is just the same when he contemplates it as yellow, white, or dove-gray. As the bodhisattva-mahāsattva contemplates in this way, light of blue-black, yellow, red, white, and dove-gray streams forth from between his own eyebrows, and, within each and every one of these lights, the bodhisattva sees the form of a buddha. Seeing this, he at once asks: 'This body here, an assembly of impure causes and conditions come together — how does it come to sit, to rise, to walk, to stand, to bend, to stretch, to gaze and blink, to breathe, to weep in grief, to laugh in joy? There is no master here at all — who, then, causes it to do these things?' Having asked this, the buddhas within the light suddenly vanish from sight. He then thinks further: 'Perhaps it is consciousness that is the self, and this is why the buddhas do not answer me.' He then contemplates this very consciousness, arising and ceasing in succession, like a flowing stream — and this, too, is not the self.

He then thinks further: 'If consciousness is not the self, then perhaps the breath, going out and coming in, is the self.' He then thinks further: 'This breath, going out and coming in, is simply the nature of wind — and this nature of wind is itself one of the four great elements. Among these four great elements, which one, then, is the self? The nature of earth is not the self; the natures of water, fire, and wind, likewise, are not the self.' He then thinks further: 'This body, in its entirety, is utterly without self — there is only mind and wind, coming together through cause and condition, manifesting every kind of activity, exactly as a spell or an illusionist's trick produces its effects, or as a harp gives forth sound according to how it is played. This being so, this body, impure as it is, merely an assembly of many causes and conditions come together — where, in it, could craving possibly arise at all? Should I be reviled and insulted, where, then, could anger possibly arise? For this very body of mine, these thirty-six impure and foul-smelling substances — where, among them, is there anyone at all to receive an insult? Should I hear myself reviled, I should reflect at once: by which single sound, exactly, am I insulted? No single sound, on its own, can constitute an insult — and if one sound cannot, neither can many together. For this very reason, I should not give rise to anger at all. Should another come and strike me, I should likewise reflect: from what, exactly, does this striking arise?' He then thinks further: 'It is through the coming together of a hand, a blade or staff, and this body of mine that what is called "striking" occurs at all. For what reason, then, should I now wrongly direct my anger at another? It is, rather, this very body of mine that has brought this trouble upon itself, since I have taken on this body of the five aggregates in the first place. It is like a target: because there is a target, an arrow strikes it. My own body is just the same: because there is a body, there is a striking of it. Should I fail to bear this with patience, my mind will become scattered; and, my mind scattered, I shall lose right mindfulness; and, having lost right mindfulness, I shall be unable to discern what is wholesome from what is not; and, unable to discern this, I shall engage in unwholesome conduct; and, through this very unwholesome conduct, I shall fall into hell, among the animals, or among the hungry ghosts.' Having contemplated in this way, the bodhisattva attains the four foundations of mindfulness; and, having attained the four foundations of mindfulness, he thereby comes to abide within the ground of forbearance. The bodhisattva-mahāsattva, abiding at this ground, is thereby able to bear with patience craving, anger, and delusion, and is likewise able to bear with patience cold and heat, hunger and thirst, mosquitoes and gnats, fleas and lice, fierce winds and harsh contact, every kind of illness and epidemic, harsh and abusive speech, beating and flogging — every affliction of body and mind he is able to bear with patience — and it is for this very reason that this is called abiding within the ground of forbearance."

The bodhisattva-mahāsattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, when a bodhisattva who has not yet attained the unshakable ground purely upholds the precepts, is there ever a cause and condition through which he might break them?" "Good son, there is: a bodhisattva who has not yet attained the unshakable ground may, given the right cause and condition, come to break the precepts." Kāśyapa said respectfully: "What is this cause and condition?" The Buddha said: "Kāśyapa, should a bodhisattva know that, through the very cause and condition of breaking a precept, he is able to cause another to receive, uphold, and delight in the scriptures of the Great Vehicle, and further cause him to recite them fluently, copy out the scriptures, explain them at length for others, and never turn back from unsurpassed, complete awakening — for the sake of this, he may indeed break a precept. The bodhisattva, at such a time, should think to himself: 'I would rather fall into the Avīci hell and receive its punishment for a full kalpa, or something less than a kalpa, than fail to ensure that such a person never turns back from unsurpassed, complete awakening.' Kāśyapa, it is through this very cause and condition that a bodhisattva-mahāsattva may come to break the pure precepts."

At that time, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva Mañjuśrī said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, should any bodhisattva gather in and protect such a person, causing him never to turn back from the mind of bodhi — even should this be, in name, a breaking of the precepts, that he should thereby fall into the Avīci hell could not possibly be so."

The Buddha then praised Mañjuśrī: "Excellent, excellent! Just as you have said. I recall that, in ages past, I was once a great king in this Jambudvīpa, named Sunetra, who loved, cherished, and revered the scriptures of the Great Vehicle, my own heart purely wholesome, free of any coarseness, malice, envy, or stinginess, my mouth forever speaking words of kindness and goodness, my own body forever sheltering and protecting the poor and the orphaned, giving and striving diligently without ever ceasing. At that time, the world was without any buddha, śrāvaka, or pratyekabuddha, and I, delighting in and loving the Vaipulya scriptures of the Great Vehicle, served a certain brahmin for twelve years, supplying him with everything he needed. After these twelve years of giving and provision were complete, I said to him: 'You, my teacher, should now give rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening.' The brahmin said: 'Great King, the very nature of bodhi is without existence — and the scriptures of the Great Vehicle are just the same. Great King, how could you cause anyone or anything to be equated with empty space?' Good son, I, at that time, held the Great Vehicle so dear in my own heart that, hearing this brahmin slander the Vaipulya teachings, I at once, upon hearing it, cut off his very life. Good son, it is through this very cause and condition that, from that time onward, I have never once fallen into hell. Good son, protecting and upholding the scriptures of the Great Vehicle carries power of this immeasurable kind."

"Furthermore, Kāśyapa, there is a further noble conduct, namely the Four Noble Truths. Suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path — these are called the Four Noble Truths. Kāśyapa, suffering has the mark of pressing distress; its origin has the mark of generating and increasing; its cessation has the mark of still extinction; the path has the mark of the Great Vehicle itself. Furthermore, good son, suffering has the mark of appearing now; its origin has the mark of turning onward into further suffering; its cessation has the mark of removing it; the path has the mark of what is able to remove it.

"Furthermore, good son, suffering has three marks: the mark of suffering upon suffering, the mark of the suffering inherent in conditioned activity, and the mark of the suffering of change; its origin is the twenty-five states of existence; its cessation is the extinguishing of these twenty-five states of existence; the path is the cultivation of moral discipline, concentration, and wisdom. Furthermore, good son, dharmas with outflow are of two kinds: those with a cause, and those with a result; dharmas without outflow are likewise of two kinds: those with a cause, and those with a result. The result of what has outflow is called suffering; the cause of what has outflow is called its origin; the result of what is without outflow is called cessation; the cause of what is without outflow is called the path.

"Furthermore, good son, eight marks are called suffering: the suffering of birth, of old age, of illness, of death, of separation from what one loves, of union with what one hates, of not obtaining what one seeks, and of the five aggregates in their full intensity. Whatever dharma is able to give rise to these eight sufferings is called their cause. Whatever place is free of these eight dharmas is called cessation. The ten powers, the four kinds of fearlessness, the three foundations of mindfulness, and great compassion — these are called the path.

"Good son, birth means the mark of emerging, and is of five kinds: first emerging, reaching completion, growing further, emerging from the womb, and the ongoing arising proper to a given kind of being. What is old age? Old age is of two kinds: aging moment by moment, and aging over the whole span of a life. It is further of two kinds: the aging of growth, and the aging of decline — this is called old age. What is illness? Illness means the four great poisonous serpents, thrown out of balance with one another; it is of two kinds: illness of the body, and illness of the mind. Illness of the body is of five kinds: caused by water, caused by wind, caused by heat, mixed illness, and adventitious illness. Adventitious illness is of four kinds: unreasonable, self-inflicted strain; a careless fall; wounding by blade, staff, or stone; and possession by ghost or spirit. Illness of the mind is likewise of four kinds: agitation, terror, grief, and delusion. Furthermore, good son, illness of body and mind together is of three kinds altogether. What are these three? The ripening of karma; the inability to remain free of harmful contact; and the changing of the seasons. Illness of this kind arises through cause and condition, and is known and distinguished by name. Its causes and conditions are illnesses such as those of wind and the like; its names are a stifled heart, a swollen chest, rising breath and coughing, a startled heart, and dysentery; and its distinguishing sensation is pain in the head, the eyes, the hands and feet, and so forth — this is called illness.

"What is death? Death means relinquishing the body one has received. This relinquishing is likewise of two kinds: death when the life-span is exhausted, and death through an external condition. Death when the life-span is exhausted is likewise of three kinds: the life-span exhausted while merit is not yet exhausted; merit exhausted while the life-span is not yet exhausted; and both merit and life-span exhausted together. Death through an external condition is, further, of three kinds: unreasonable self-inflicted death, sudden death caused by another, and death through both together. There is, further, a threefold death: death through heedlessness, death through broken precepts, and death through the destruction of the life-faculty itself. What is meant by death through heedlessness? Should anyone slander the Great Vehicle's own Vaipulya prajñāpāramitā, this is called death through heedlessness. What is meant by death through broken precepts? Transgressing the precepts established by every buddha of the past, future, and present is called death through broken precepts. What is meant by death through the destruction of the life-faculty? Relinquishing the body of the five aggregates is called death through the destruction of the life-faculty. Death, understood in this way, is called the great suffering.

"What is meant by the suffering of separation from what one loves? It is what one loves being broken apart and scattered. This being broken apart and scattered is likewise of two kinds: the destruction of the five aggregates among humans, and the destruction of the five aggregates among the gods. The five aggregates loved by humans and gods alike, distinguished and reckoned in every particular, are of countless kinds — this is called the suffering of separation from what one loves. What is meant by the suffering of union with what one hates? It is what one does not love coming together all the same. This coming together of what one does not love is, further, of three kinds: namely, hell, the hungry ghosts, and the animal realm. These three destinies, distinguished and reckoned in every particular, are of countless kinds — this, then, is called the suffering of union with what one hates. What is meant by the suffering of not obtaining what one seeks? This suffering is, further, of two kinds: seeking what one hopes for and being unable to obtain it, and expending much effort without any result — this, then, is called the suffering of not obtaining what one seeks. What is meant by the suffering of the five aggregates in their full intensity? The suffering of the five aggregates in their full intensity is itself the suffering of birth, of old age, of illness, of death, of separation from what one loves, of craving amid what one hates, and of not obtaining what one seeks — and this is why it is called the suffering of the five aggregates in their full intensity.

"Kāśyapa, birth is the very root from which arise all seven of these other sufferings, from old age through to the suffering of the five aggregates in their full intensity. Kāśyapa, old age itself does not belong to everyone without exception — buddhas and the gods are entirely free of it, without any doubt, while among humans it is uncertain, sometimes present and sometimes not. Kāśyapa, taking on a body within the three realms, there is no being without birth — old age is not a certainty, but birth is, for this very reason, the root of everything else. Kāśyapa, the beings of the world, their minds covered over by inversion, cling with craving to the mark of birth, while dreading and detesting old age and death. Kāśyapa, the bodhisattva is not so — observing a being's very first birth, he already sees its fault.

"Kāśyapa, it is like a woman entering another's house — this woman is beautiful, her countenance lovely and radiant, her body adorned with fine ornaments. The master of the house, seeing her, at once asks: 'What is your name? To whom do you belong?' The woman answers: 'I am, myself, the great goddess of Fortune.' The master asks further: 'Wherever you go, what do you do there?' The woman answers: 'Wherever I go, I am able to give gold, silver, lapis lazuli, crystal, pearls, coral, amber, coral shell, agate, elephants, horses, and carriages, male and female servants.' Hearing this, the master's heart is filled with joy, leaping with immeasurable delight: 'It is my own merit and virtue, surely, that has caused you to come to my own house!' He at once burns incense and scatters flowers, making offerings, revering her, and bowing before her.

"He then sees, further, outside the gate, another woman, her form ugly and repulsive, her clothing tattered and worn, covered in filth and grime, her skin cracked and withered, her complexion sallow and pale. Seeing her, he asks: 'What is your name? To whose household do you belong?' The woman answers: 'My name is Darkness.' He asks further: 'Why are you named Darkness?' The woman answers: 'Wherever I go, I cause every treasure that household possesses to waste away entirely.' Hearing this, the master at once takes up a sharp blade, saying: 'If you do not leave at once, I shall take your life.' The woman answers: 'You are truly foolish, without any wisdom at all.' The master asks: 'Why do you call me foolish, without wisdom?' The woman answers: 'The one within your own house is my elder sister. I am forever together with my sister, wherever she goes and wherever she stays — should you drive me away, you must drive her away as well.'

"The master goes back inside and asks the goddess of Fortune: 'There is a woman outside who says she is your younger sister — is this truly so?' The goddess of Fortune says: 'It is truly so — she is my own sister. Wherever I go, wherever I stay, she is together with me, never once apart. Wherever we dwell, I forever bring good fortune, and she forever brings ruin; I forever bring benefit, and she forever brings decline. Should you love me, you must love her as well; should you show me reverence, you must revere her as well.' The master then says: 'If good and ill come bound together in this way, I want neither of you — go, both of you, wherever you wish.' At this, the two women, together, take their leave and return to wherever they had come from. Seeing them go, the master's heart is filled with joy, leaping with immeasurable delight.

"The two women then go on together, following one another to the house of a poor man. This poor man, seeing them, is filled with joy, and at once invites them, saying: 'From this day forward, I ask only that you two remain always in my house.' The goddess of Fortune says: 'We were just now driven away by another — for what reason, then, do you invite us both to stay?' The poor man answers: 'Since you now think kindly of me, I, for your sake, shall come to revere your sister as well — this is why I invite you both to remain in my house.' Kāśyapa, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same: he does not wish for rebirth among the gods, since birth inevitably brings old age, illness, and death along with it — and so he casts both aside together, never once holding either with a loving mind. Ordinary, foolish people do not know the fault inherent in old age, illness, and death, and this is why they crave and accept both birth and death together.

"Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a young brahmin boy who, driven by hunger, sees an āmra fruit lying in human excrement, and picks it up at once. A wise person, seeing this, rebukes him: 'You are a brahmin, of pure lineage — why do you pick up this filthy fruit from the excrement?' Hearing this, the boy, red-faced with shame, answers: 'I truly have no intention of eating it — I only wish to wash it clean, and then throw it away again.' The wise man says: 'You are exceedingly foolish — if you intend only to throw it away again, you should never have picked it up at all.' Good son, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same, neither accepting nor rejecting this portion of birth — exactly as that wise man rebuked the boy. Ordinary people delight in birth and detest death, exactly like that boy who picked up the fruit only to throw it away again.

"Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a person at a crossroads with a vessel filled with food, complete in color, fragrance, and flavor, wishing to sell it. A person, arriving from far away, famished, weak, and exhausted, sees this food, complete in color, fragrance, and flavor, and points to it, asking: 'What is this?' The food's owner answers: 'This is a superior food, complete in color, fragrance, and flavor. Should you eat this food, you shall gain beauty and strength, remove hunger and thirst, and come to see the gods themselves — there is only one drawback: it brings about the end of your life.' Hearing this, the person thinks to himself: 'I have no use now for beauty, strength, or seeing the gods, nor do I want death.' He says: 'If eating this food brings about the end of my life, why, then, do you sell it at all?' The food's owner answers: 'A wise person would never buy it — only a fool, not knowing this, pays me a high price for it, and eats it out of craving.' Good son, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same: he does not wish for rebirth among the gods, for beauty, strength, and the sight of the gods themselves. Why is this? Because none of it frees him from suffering and affliction. Ordinary, foolish people crave and love every place of birth, wherever it may be, because they fail to see the old age, illness, and death bound up within it.

"Furthermore, good son, it is like a poisonous tree, whose root alone can kill, whose stem alone can kill, and whose bark, flowers, and fruit can each kill as well. Good son, the five aggregates received at birth, in any of the twenty-five states of existence, are just the same — every part of them can kill. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like filth and excrement, which stink whether there is much of it or little. Good son, birth is just the same: whether one's life-span is eighty thousand years, or as little as ten, suffering is received either way. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a steep cliff, covered over with grass, at whose edge there is abundant nectar — should anyone eat of it, he would gain a heavenly life-span of a thousand years, forever free of illness, at peace and full of joy. An ordinary, foolish person, craving this flavor, not knowing that a great, deep pit lies hidden just beneath, steps forward to take it, and, his foot slipping without his even noticing, falls into the pit and dies. The wise, knowing this, keep their distance and depart. Good son, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same: he does not even wish to receive the finest food of the heavens themselves, how much less anything among humans? Ordinary people even swallow balls of burning iron in hell — how much less, then, should the finest delicacies of gods and humans be beyond his eating? Kāśyapa, through similes of this kind, and countless, boundless others besides, one should know that birth is, in truth, a great suffering. Kāśyapa, this is what is called the bodhisattva-mahāsattva's own contemplation of the suffering of birth, abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle."

"Kāśyapa, how does the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, contemplate the suffering of old age? Old age is able to bring on coughing and rising breath; it is able to destroy one's own strength and courage, one's memory and diligence, the joy of one's prime, pride and arrogance, ease and self-indulgence; it is able to bring on a bent, stooped back, indolence and laziness, and being held in contempt by others.

Kāśyapa, it is like a pond full of lotus flowers, blooming and radiant, truly a delight to behold — and then hail falls from the heavens, and every one of them is destroyed. Good son, old age is just the same, entirely able to destroy the beauty of one's youthful prime. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a king who has a wise minister, well versed in the art of war; when an enemy king resists and refuses submission, the king sends this minister to subdue him, and he is captured and brought before the king. Old age is just the same, seizing the beauty of one's prime and delivering it over to the king of death. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a broken axle, no longer of any use at all — old age is just the same, no longer of any use at all. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a wealthy household, rich in treasure — gold, silver, lapis lazuli, coral, amber, coral shell, agate — into which bandit-enemies break, plundering everything until it is left entirely empty. Good son, the beauty of one's youthful prime is just the same, forever plundered by the bandit of old age.

"Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a poor person craving fine food and soft, delicate clothing, who, though he longs for them, can never obtain them. Good son, old age is just the same: though the mind still craves and wishes to enjoy wealth and pleasure, indulging freely in the five desires, it can no longer obtain them. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a land-tortoise, whose heart forever longs for water. Good son, a person is just the same: withered and dried out by advancing old age, his heart forever recalls the pleasures of the five desires he once enjoyed in his own prime. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the lotus flowers of autumn, which everyone once delighted to see, but which, once they wither and yellow, everyone comes to despise. Good son, the beauty of one's youthful prime is just the same: once loved and delighted in by all, and, once old age arrives, despised by all. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like sugarcane, once it has been pressed — its pulp left with no flavor at all. Good son, the beauty of one's youthful prime is just the same: once pressed by old age, it is left with none of three flavors — the flavor of going forth, the flavor of reciting the scriptures, and the flavor of sitting in meditation. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the full moon, bright with abundant light by night, but not so by day. Good son, a person is just the same: dignified and radiant in his prime, his form and features magnificent, but withered and weak in old age, his form and spirit alike worn and haggard.

"Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a king who forever governs his own land with the true Dharma, true and without deceit, compassionate and generous — and who is then defeated by an enemy kingdom, driven into exile, fleeing at last to another land. The people of that other land, seeing him, are filled with pity, saying together: 'Great King, you once governed your land with the true Dharma, never wronging your own people — how, then, have you come to be driven into such exile as this?' Good son, a person is just the same: once broken down by advancing old age, he forever praises the deeds he once accomplished in his own prime. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a lamp's wick, dependent entirely on its own oil — once the oil is exhausted, its flame cannot last much longer. Good son, a person is just the same, dependent entirely on the oil of his own youthful prime — and once this oil is exhausted, how could the wick of aging old age possibly last much longer? Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a dried-up river, of no benefit to humans or non-humans, to birds on the wing or beasts that roam. Good son, a person is just the same: withered by old age, no longer of benefit to any undertaking at all. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a tree standing on a steep riverbank, certain to topple should a fierce wind arise. Good son, a person is just the same: standing upon the perilous cliff-edge of old age, once the wind of death arrives, he cannot possibly remain standing. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a cart with a broken axle, unable to bear a heavy load. Good son, old age is just the same, unable to receive and take in any wholesome dharma at all. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like an infant, held in contempt by others. Good son, old age is just the same, forever held in contempt and scorn by everyone. Kāśyapa, through similes of this kind, and countless, boundless others besides, one should know that old age is, in truth, a great suffering. Kāśyapa, this is what is called the bodhisattva-mahāsattva's own contemplation of the suffering of old age, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle."

"Kāśyapa, how does the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, contemplate the suffering of illness? Illness is able to destroy every peaceful and joyful thing there is, just as a hailstorm damages and destroys the young grain. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a person with an enemy, his heart forever anxious, harboring dread. Good son, every being is just the same, forever fearing the suffering of illness, his heart filled with worry and grief. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a person of handsome, dignified appearance, desired by a king's own wife, who sends a messenger to summon him urgently, and has relations with him. The king, catching them, has this person seized, gouging out one of his eyes, cutting off one of his ears, severing one hand and foot — and this person's own appearance, from that time on, is entirely altered, held in contempt by everyone. Good son, a person is just the same: though his body, ears, and eyes remain whole, once he is bound and pressed by the suffering of illness, he comes to be held in contempt by everyone all the same.

"Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the plantain tree, or bamboo, reed, or the muñja grass, which die once they bear fruit. Good son, a person is just the same: once illness comes, death follows. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a cakravartin king, whose commanding minister of arms always leads the way before him, the king himself following behind; or like the king of fish, the king of ants, the king of bees, the king of cattle, or a caravan's leader, in front of whom, wherever they go, their whole following goes as well, never once left behind. Good son, the king of death is just the same, forever accompanied by his own minister, Illness, never once parting from him. And fish, ants, bees, cattle, or a caravan — their king, Illness, is just the same, forever followed and pursued by his own crowd of Death.

"Kāśyapa, the very causes and conditions of illness are suffering and affliction, worry, grief, and lamentation, unease of body and mind, being pressed and harmed as though by a bandit-enemy, tearing apart one's own floating bag, and dismantling one's own bridge; it is able to plunder the very root of right mindfulness, and further able to destroy the beauty of one's youthful prime, one's strength and ease, stripping away shame and conscience, and setting body and mind alike ablaze with feverish heat. Through similes of this kind, and countless, boundless others besides, one should know that the suffering of illness is a great suffering. Kāśyapa, this is what is called the bodhisattva-mahāsattva's own contemplation of the suffering of illness, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle.

"Kāśyapa, how does the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, contemplate the suffering of death? Death is what burns and extinguishes everything. Kāśyapa, it is like the great conflagration that arises at the end of an age, able to burn everything — excepting only the second dhyāna, which its power cannot reach. Good son, the fire of death is just the same, able to burn everything — excepting only the bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, whom its force cannot reach. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the great flood that arises at the end of an age, sweeping everything away and submerging it — excepting only the third dhyāna, which its power cannot reach. Good son, the flood of death is just the same, sweeping everything away and submerging it — excepting only the bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the great windstorm that arises at the end of an age, able to blow everything apart, scattering and destroying it — excepting only the fourth dhyāna, which its power cannot reach. Good son, the wind of death is just the same, able to blow away and destroy everything there is — excepting only the bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle."

The bodhisattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, for what cause and condition is the fourth dhyāna one which wind cannot blow apart, water cannot sweep away, and fire cannot burn?" The Buddha said to Kāśyapa: "Good son, the fourth dhyāna is entirely free of fault, both inward and outward. Good son, the first dhyāna's own fault is that, inwardly, it still has coarse and subtle thought, and, outwardly, is reached by the great conflagration. The second dhyāna's own fault is that, inwardly, it still has rapture, and, outwardly, is reached by the great flood. The third dhyāna's own fault is that, inwardly, it still has respiration, and, outwardly, is reached by the great windstorm. Good son, the fourth dhyāna is entirely free of fault, both inward and outward together, and this is why none of these three disasters can ever reach it. Good son, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same: abiding securely within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, he is entirely free of fault, both inward and outward, and this is why the king of death can never reach him.

"Furthermore, good son, it is like the garuḍa bird, able to devour and dissolve every nāga, fish, and treasure of gold and silver, excepting only vajra, which it cannot dissolve. Good son, the garuḍa bird of death is just the same, able to devour and dissolve every being — excepting only the bodhisattva-mahāsattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the grasses and trees along a riverbank, swept along by a great, sudden flood, following the current out into the great ocean — excepting only the willow, on account of its own suppleness. Good son, every being is just the same, following the current out into the sea of death — excepting only the bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like Nārāyaṇa, able to subdue every strong warrior there is, excepting only the great wind. Why is this? Because the wind meets no obstruction. Good son, the Nārāyaṇa of death is just the same, able to subdue every being — excepting only the bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle. Why is this? Because this bodhisattva, too, meets no obstruction. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a person who, among his own enemies, feigns close friendship, forever pursuing his target, following him like a shadow follows its form, watching for his opportunity, wishing to kill him — but that intended victim, ever cautious, keeps himself firmly guarded, and so this person is never able to kill him. Good son, the enemy of death is just the same, forever watching for beings, wishing to kill them — excepting only the bodhisattva-mahāsattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, whom he can never kill. Why is this? Because this bodhisattva is never heedless. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a sudden downpour of vajra hail, destroying every medicinal plant, every tree, mountain and forest, every particle of earth and sand, tile and stone, gold, silver, and lapis lazuli — excepting only vajra itself, the true treasure, which it cannot destroy. Good son, the vajra rain of death is just the same, able to destroy every being — excepting only the vajra-like bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the garuḍa bird, able to devour every nāga — excepting only those who have taken the three refuges. Good son, the garuḍa bird of death is just the same, able to devour every one of the countless beings there is — excepting only the bodhisattva abiding within the three samādhis. What are these three samādhis? Emptiness, no-mark, and wishlessness. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like the poisonous māra serpent, whose bite, wherever it strikes, no excellent mantra or fine medicine can counter at all — only the mantra of the star Agastya is able to cure it. Good son, the poisonous bite of death is just the same: no medical art of any kind can counter it at all — excepting only the bodhisattva who abides within the mantra of this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle. Furthermore, Kāśyapa, it is like a person who has incurred a king's own wrath — should this person be able to offer gentle, pleasing words, and present treasure as tribute, he may thereby escape. Good son, the king of death is not so: though one offer gentle words, money, and every treasure as tribute to him, one can never escape him at all.

"Good son, death, in this perilous place, leaves one without any provision at all; the place it leads to is impossibly distant, and without any companion; it proceeds ceaselessly, day and night, its own limit unknown; it is deep and utterly dark, without a single lamp's light; it enters through no door at all, and yet has its own dwelling-place; though it strikes no single point of pain, it cannot be treated at all; wherever it goes, nothing can stop it, and, once it arrives, there is no escaping it; it destroys nothing visible, and yet whoever beholds it is struck with grief and anguish; it bears no wicked form, and yet still terrifies; it lies spread out beside the body itself, and yet remains entirely unnoticed. Kāśyapa, through similes of this kind, and countless, boundless others besides, one should know that death is, in truth, a great suffering. Kāśyapa, this is what is called the bodhisattva-mahāsattva's own contemplation of the suffering of death, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle."

"Kāśyapa, how does the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, contemplate the suffering of separation from what one loves? The suffering of separation from what one loves is itself the very root of every other suffering, as this verse says:

'Through love, grief is born; through love, fear is born.
Were one free of love, what grief, what fear, could there be?'

It is through the very cause and condition of love that grief and suffering arise, and, through this grief and suffering, beings come to experience the suffering of aging and of separation from what they love, namely the ending of life itself. Good son, it is through separation that every kind of subtle suffering is born — I shall now explain and reveal this for you in detail.

Good son, in an age long past, when human life-spans were immeasurably long, there was a king named Sunivāsa. This king spent eighty-four thousand years as a boy, another eighty-four thousand years as crown prince managing affairs of state, and yet another eighty-four thousand years upon the throne itself. During this time, a fleshy boil grew upon the crown of the king's own head — a soft boil, like fine cotton-down or delicate kalpa-cloth, gradually growing larger, without ever causing him any trouble. When a full ten months had passed, the boil split open, and a boy was born from it, his form dignified and handsome, extraordinary and without equal, his features clear and radiant, foremost among humankind. His father the king, filled with joy, named him Mūrdhaja, "Crown-Born." King Sunivāsa then entrusted the affairs of the kingdom to Mūrdhaja, setting aside his own palace, wife and children, and household, and went into the mountains to study the path, remaining there for a full eighty-four thousand years.

At that time, on the fifteenth day, Mūrdhaja, standing upon a high tower, having bathed and observed the fasting precepts, saw a golden wheel-treasure appear from the east, its thousand spokes, hub, and rim entirely complete, made by no craftsman's hand, come into being of itself, arriving in response to him. King Mūrdhaja thought to himself: 'I once heard a sage of the five supernormal powers say that, should a kṣatriya king, on the fifteenth day, standing upon a high tower, having bathed and observed the fasting precepts, be met by a golden wheel — a thousand spokes complete, its hub and rim entire, made by no craftsman's hand, come into being of itself — one should know that this king is thereby destined to become a cakravartin, a sage-emperor who turns the wheel.' He thought further: 'I shall now put this to the test.' He at once raised up this wheel-treasure with his left hand, held an incense burner in his right, knelt with his right knee to the ground, and made this vow: 'Should this golden wheel-treasure be true, and not false, may it go forth exactly as it went for every cakravartin sage-king of the past.' Having made this vow, this golden wheel-treasure rose up into the sky, circled throughout the ten directions, and returned to rest once more in Mūrdhaja's own left hand. Mūrdhaja's heart was then filled with joy, leaping with immeasurable delight, and he said further: 'I am now, without doubt, destined to become a cakravartin king.'

Not long after this, an elephant-treasure appeared, dignified and beautiful in form, like a white lotus flower, its seven limbs planted firmly upon the ground. Seeing this, Mūrdhaja thought further: 'I once heard a sage of the five supernormal powers say that, should a cakravartin king, on the fifteenth day, standing upon a high tower, having bathed and observed the fasting precepts, be met by an elephant-treasure — dignified and beautiful in form, like a white lotus flower, its seven limbs planted firmly upon the ground — one should know that this king is truly a sage-emperor.' He thought further: 'I shall now put this to the test.' He at once raised up an incense burner, knelt with his right knee to the ground, and made this vow: 'Should this white elephant-treasure be true, and not false, may it go forth exactly as it went for every cakravartin sage-king of the past.' Having made this vow, this white elephant-treasure, from dawn until dusk, circled throughout the eight directions to the very edge of the great ocean, and returned to rest in its original place. Mūrdhaja's heart was then filled with great joy, leaping with immeasurable delight, and he said further: 'I am now, without doubt, a cakravartin sage-king.'

Not long after this, a horse-treasure appeared, its color a deep, radiant blue-black, its mane and tail golden. Seeing this, Mūrdhaja thought further: 'I once heard a sage of the five supernormal powers say that, should a cakravartin king, on the fifteenth day, standing upon a high tower, having bathed and observed the fasting precepts, be met by a horse-treasure — its color a deep, radiant blue-black, its mane and tail golden — one should know that this king is truly a sage-emperor.' He thought further: 'I shall now put this to the test.' He at once took up an incense burner, knelt with his right knee to the ground, and made this vow: 'Should this deep blue-black horse-treasure be true, and not false, may it go forth exactly as it went for every cakravartin sage-king of the past.' Having made this vow, this deep blue-black horse-treasure, from dawn until dusk, circled throughout the eight directions to the very edge of the great ocean, and returned to rest in its original place. Mūrdhaja's heart was then filled with great joy, leaping with immeasurable delight, and he said further: 'I am now, without doubt, a cakravartin sage-king.'

Not long after this, further, a woman-treasure appeared, her form dignified, subtle and wondrous, foremost of all — neither too tall nor too short, neither too pale nor too dark, every pore of her body giving off the fragrance of sandalwood, her breath as fragrant and pure as the blue lotus, her eyes able to see a full league into the distance, her ears and nose likewise able to hear and smell to such a distance, her tongue broad and long, able, when extended, to cover her own face, her form slender and delicate, like a leaf of red copper, her mind sharp and wise, possessed of great intelligence, forever speaking gentle words to every being. When this woman touched the king's own robe with her hand, she knew at once whether the king's own body was at ease or afflicted, and knew, too, what the king's own mind was dwelling upon. Mūrdhaja thought further: 'Should there be a woman able to know the king's own mind in this way, she is indeed a woman-treasure.'

Not long after this, within the king's own palace, a precious maṇi jewel appeared of itself, pure blue lapis lazuli, as large as a person's own thigh, able to illuminate a full league even in darkness; and, should rain fall from the heavens in drops as thick as a cart's own axle, this jewel's own power was able to form a canopy, entirely covering a full league of ground, warding off this great rain, never letting it fall through. Mūrdhaja thought further: 'Should a cakravartin king obtain a jewel-treasure of this kind, he is surely a sage-emperor.'

Not long after this, a treasurer-minister appeared of himself, abundant in wealth and treasure, of boundless riches, his storehouses filled to overflowing, lacking nothing at all, having obtained, as the fruit of his own past deeds, an eye able to see clearly through the earth to every buried treasure within it, able to procure at once whatever the king might wish for. Mūrdhaja, wishing to test him further, boarded a ship with him and went out onto the great ocean, saying to this treasurer-minister: 'I now wish to obtain some rare and wondrous treasure.' Hearing this, the treasurer-minister at once stirred the waters of the great ocean with both hands, and, from the tips of his own ten fingers, ten treasuries of jewels emerged, which he offered to the sage-king, saying: 'Great King, take and use whatever you need of these — as for the rest, I shall cast it back into the great ocean.' Mūrdhaja's heart was then filled with great joy, leaping with immeasurable delight, and he thought to himself further: 'I am now, without doubt, a cakravartin sage-king.'

Not long after this, a general-minister appeared of himself, brave, strong, fierce, and bold, his strategy foremost of all, well versed in every one of the four divisions of the army — presenting to the sage-king only those soldiers fit for battle, withdrawing and never presenting those unfit, able to subdue whatever remained unsubdued, and able to protect and defend whatever had already been subdued. Mūrdhaja thought further: 'Should a cakravartin king obtain a general-treasure of this kind, one should know that he is surely a cakravartin sage-king.'

"Mūrdhaja, the cakravartin sage-emperor, then said to his assembled ministers: 'You should know that this Jambudvīpa is now at peace, prosperous and joyful. And I have now already accomplished the seven treasures, and possess a full thousand sons besides — what more is there left to do?' The ministers answered: 'Indeed, Great King — Pūrvavideha, in the east, has not yet submitted to your own virtue; the King should go and subdue it.' The sage-king then, together with all seven treasures and his whole retinue, flew through the sky to Pūrvavideha in the east, and the people of that land, rejoicing, submitted to him. He said further to his ministers: 'My own Jambudvīpa, and now Pūrvavideha besides, are at peace, prosperous and joyful, their people flourishing, all having submitted to my own virtue, the seven treasures accomplished, a full thousand sons besides — what more is there left to do?' The ministers answered: 'Indeed, Great King — Aparagodānīya, in the west, has not yet submitted to your own virtue.' The sage-king then, once more with all seven treasures and his whole retinue, flew through the sky to Aparagodānīya in the west. Once the king arrived there, the people of that land likewise submitted to him. He said further to his ministers: 'My own Jambudvīpa, and Pūrvavideha, and now this Aparagodānīya besides, are at peace, prosperous and joyful, their people flourishing, all having submitted, the seven treasures accomplished, a full thousand sons besides — what more is there left to do?' The ministers answered: 'Indeed, Great King — Uttarakuru, in the north, has not yet submitted to your own virtue.' The sage-king then, once more with all seven treasures and his whole retinue, flew through the sky to Uttarakuru in the north. Once the king arrived there, the people of that land, rejoicing, submitted to his own virtue.

He said further to his ministers: 'My own four continents are now at peace, prosperous and joyful, their people flourishing, all having submitted to my own virtue, the seven treasures accomplished, a full thousand sons besides — what more is there left to do?' The ministers answered: 'Indeed, sage-king — the Trāyastriṃśa heaven, whose life-span is exceedingly long, is at peace and full of joy. The gods there, their forms dignified beyond compare, dwell in palaces, upon beds and couches, entirely made of the seven treasures. Relying on their own heavenly merit, they have not yet come to submit — the King should now go and subdue them.' The sage-king then, once more with all seven treasures and his whole retinue, flew soaring through the sky, up to the Trāyastriṃśa heaven itself. There, he saw a single tree, its color a vivid green. Seeing this, the sage-king asked his ministers: 'What is this color?' The ministers answered: 'This is the pārijāta tree — the gods of Trāyastriṃśa, throughout the three months of summer, forever take their pleasure and delight beneath it.' He then saw a white color, like a white cloud, and asked his ministers further: 'What is that?' The ministers answered: 'That is the Hall of Wholesome Dharma — the gods of Trāyastriṃśa forever gather within it, discussing the affairs of gods and humans.'

At this, Śakra, lord of the gods, knowing that King Mūrdhaja had arrived and was waiting outside, went out at once to receive him. Seeing him, Śakra took his hand and ascended with him to the Hall of Wholesome Dharma, and shared his own seat with him. At that time, these two kings, in form and appearance, were entirely without difference from one another — only their manner of gazing and blinking set them apart at all. The sage-king then gave rise to this very thought: 'Should I not now step down from my own kingship, and dwell here instead, becoming a king of the gods myself?' Good son, at that time, Śakra himself received, upheld, recited, opened up, and explained the scriptures of the Great Vehicle for the sake of others — though, with regard to their deepest meaning, he had not yet fully penetrated it. It was through the very power of this reciting, upholding, explaining, and teaching at length for others that he possessed such great, majestic virtue. Good son, but Mūrdhaja, giving rise to a wicked thought toward this very Śakra, at once fell from that place, tumbling back down to Jambudvīpa, parted from the gods and humans he had so loved, and, overcome with great anguish, fell further into a grave illness, and thereupon died. That Śakra, at that time, was none other than the buddha Kāśyapa. That cakravartin sage-king was none other than myself. Good son, you should know that separation from what one loves, of this kind, is a suffering of the very gravest kind. Good son, if the bodhisattva-mahāsattva still recalls, even now, past sufferings of separation such as this, how much more, then, should a bodhisattva abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle fail to contemplate the very same suffering of separation in the present age?"

"Good son, how does the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, contemplate the suffering of union with what one hates? Good son, this bodhisattva-mahāsattva observes that hell, the animal realm, the hungry ghosts, the human world, and the heavens above all alike carry this very suffering of union with what one hates — just as a person regards prison, confinement, the cangue and chain, and shackles as a great suffering. The bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same, observing that every rebirth throughout the five destinies is itself this very great suffering of union with what one hates. Furthermore, good son, it is like a person who, forever dreading an enemy's own household, the cangue and chain, and shackles, abandons his own parents, wife and children, household, treasure, and livelihood, and flees far away. The bodhisattva-mahāsattva is just the same: dreading birth and death, he fully cultivates the six pāramitās, and enters nirvāṇa. Kāśyapa, this is what is called the bodhisattva-mahāsattva's own contemplation of the suffering of union with what one hates, cultivating this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle.

"Good son, how does the bodhisattva cultivate this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, contemplating the suffering of not obtaining what one seeks? Seeking here means seeking everything without exception. Seeking everything is of two kinds: seeking wholesome dharmas, and seeking unwholesome dharmas. Not yet obtaining a wholesome dharma is suffering; not yet being free of an unwholesome dharma is suffering — this, in brief, is the suffering of the five aggregates in their full intensity. Kāśyapa, this is called the noble truth of suffering."

At that time, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, as the Buddha has taught, that the five aggregates in their full intensity are suffering — this meaning does not seem right. Why is this? As the Buddha once told Mahānāman the Śākya: 'Were physical form itself suffering, no being would ever seek it — and whoever seeks it, it could not rightly be called suffering at all.' As the Buddha has told the monks: 'There are three kinds of feeling: the feeling of suffering, the feeling of bliss, and the feeling of neither suffering nor bliss.' As the Buddha has taught the monks before: 'Should anyone be able to cultivate wholesome dharmas, he thereby comes to receive bliss.' And as the Buddha has taught: 'Within a wholesome destiny, the six contacts receive bliss — the eye seeing a fine form is itself bliss, and it is just the same for the ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind, encountering a fine sound, scent, taste, touch, or thought.' As the Buddha has taught in verse:

"'Keeping the precepts is itself bliss, the body free of every suffering;
sleep brings peace and ease, and waking brings a joyful heart.

Whether receiving robes and food, reciting the scriptures, or walking in mindful practice,
dwelling alone in the mountain forest — this is the very greatest bliss.

Whoever is able, day and night, forever to cultivate loving-kindness toward every being,
thereby attains constant bliss, through never troubling another.

The bliss of few desires and contentment, the bliss of vast learning and discernment,
the arhat, free of all attachment, is likewise said to receive bliss.

The bodhisattva-mahāsattva, having reached the very far shore,
every task accomplished — this is called the very greatest bliss of all.'

World-Honored One, this is the meaning of bliss as taught throughout the scriptures. How, then, does what the Buddha now teaches accord with this same meaning?"

The Buddha said to Kāśyapa: "Excellent, excellent, good son! You have questioned the Tathāgata about this meaning well. Good son, every being, amid the lowest suffering, falsely gives rise to the notion of bliss — and this is why what I now teach about the mark of suffering does not differ at all from what I have taught before." The bodhisattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "As the Buddha has taught it, that beings falsely give rise to the notion of bliss amid the lowest suffering — then the lowest birth, the lowest old age, the lowest illness, the lowest death, the lowest separation from what one loves, the lowest not obtaining what one seeks, the lowest union with what one hates, the lowest of the five aggregates — sufferings of this kind, too, should have their own bliss. World-Honored One, the lowest birth means the three evil destinies; the middle birth means the human world; the highest birth means the heavens above. Should someone then ask this: 'If, amid the lowest bliss, one gives rise to a notion of suffering, and, amid the middle bliss, one gives rise to neither a notion of suffering nor of bliss, and, amid the highest bliss, one gives rise to a notion of bliss' — how should this be answered? World-Honored One, if beings truly give rise to a notion of bliss amid the lowest suffering, one has never yet seen anyone, facing a thousand lashes, give rise to a notion of bliss at the very first lash — and if no such notion arises even then, how can it be said that beings give rise to a notion of bliss amid the lowest suffering at all?"

The Buddha said to Kāśyapa: "It is so, it is so, just as you have said. It is for this very reason that there is, in truth, no notion of bliss at all. Why is this? It is like that person, facing a thousand lashes, who, once he has received a single lash and is thereby freed of the rest, at that very moment gives rise to a notion of bliss. One should therefore know that a notion of bliss is falsely given rise to amid what is, in truth, without bliss at all." Kāśyapa said: "World-Honored One, that person does not give rise to a notion of bliss on account of the single lash itself — he gives rise to it because he has thereby been freed."

"Kāśyapa, it is for this very reason that I once told Mahānāman that there is indeed real bliss to be found among the five aggregates. Kāśyapa, there are three feelings and three sufferings. The three feelings are the feeling of bliss, the feeling of suffering, and the feeling of neither suffering nor bliss. The three sufferings are suffering upon suffering, the suffering of conditioned activity, and the suffering of change. Good son, the feeling of suffering contains all three sufferings within it — suffering upon suffering, the suffering of conditioned activity, and the suffering of change. The remaining two feelings contain only the latter two — the suffering of conditioned activity and the suffering of change. Good son, it is through this very cause and condition that there is, indeed, real feeling of bliss within birth and death. The bodhisattva-mahāsattva, since the nature of suffering and bliss never actually part from one another, says for this very reason that everything, without exception, is suffering. Good son, there is, in truth, no real bliss within birth and death at all — it is only that every buddha and bodhisattva, according with the ways of the world, speaks of there being bliss."

The bodhisattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, when every buddha and bodhisattva speaks according with worldly convention in this way, is this speech false? As the Buddha has taught, that whoever cultivates wholesome conduct receives a result of bliss, that keeping the precepts brings the body ease and freedom from suffering, up to every task being accomplished being the very greatest bliss — is the feeling of bliss taught in scriptures of this kind false? And if it is false, then, since every buddha, every world-honored one, has long ago, throughout countless hundreds of thousands, millions of asaṃkhyeya kalpas of cultivating the path of bodhi, already departed forever from false speech — what, then, is the meaning of teaching in this way now?"

The Buddha said: "Good son, the verses on the feeling of bliss taught above are themselves the very root of the path of bodhi, and are also able to nurture and increase unsurpassed, complete awakening. It is for this very reason that this mark of bliss is taught first, within the scriptures. Good son, it is like the world: whatever provisions one requires become a cause for bliss, and are, for this very reason, called bliss — the beauty of women, indulgence in wine, fine food and sweet flavor, obtaining water when thirsty, encountering fire when cold, clothing and ornaments, elephants, horses, and carriages, male and female servants, gold, silver, lapis lazuli, coral, pearls, granaries full of rice — things of this kind, needed in the world, become a cause for bliss, and are, for this reason, called bliss. Good son, things of this kind are equally able to give rise to suffering: because of a woman, a man may suffer, grieving and weeping even unto death; because of wine, or sweet flavor, or even a granary of rice, a person may likewise come to suffer great distress. It is for this very reason that everything, without exception, is suffering, without any real mark of bliss at all. Good son, the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, with regard to these eight sufferings, understands both suffering and the absence of suffering at once. Good son, every śrāvaka and pratyekabuddha, not knowing the true cause of bliss, is taught, for their own sake, that there is a mark of bliss amid the lowest suffering. Only the bodhisattva, abiding within this Mahāparinirvāṇa of the Great Vehicle, is truly able to know both the cause of suffering and the cause of bliss."