The King Who Could Not Sleep

At that time, King Ajātaśatru of the great city of Rājagṛha was, by nature, vicious, delighting in killing and slaughter, possessed of all four verbal evils, and consumed by greed, hatred, and delusion, his mind so ablaze that he saw only the present and never the future; he kept company solely with evil men, and, craving the pleasures of the five desires in this present life, he wrongfully turned against his own father, the king, who was entirely innocent, and had him killed. Having killed his father, a feverish remorse arose in his mind; he no longer wore his jeweled ornaments or called for music; and, because his mind burned with this remorse, sores broke out over his entire body, foul and stinking, so that no one could bear to come near him. He thought to himself: "This body of mine has already received its flowering retribution — the fruiting retribution of hell itself cannot now be far off." His mother, whose name was Vaidehī, applied every kind of medicine to the sores, and yet they only worsened, never lessening at all. The king said to his mother: "A sore of this kind arises from the mind itself, not from the four elements. Should anyone claim that any being is able to cure it, this could not possibly be so."

At that time, there was a great minister named Candraprabha, who went to where the king was, stood to one side, and said: "Great king, why are you so downcast and unwell in appearance? Is it your body that pains you, or your mind?" The king answered: "How could my body and mind not pain me? My father, entirely innocent, I wrongfully turned against and had killed. I have heard from the wise that there are, in this world, five kinds of persons who cannot escape hell — those guilty of the five gravest offenses. I have now committed immeasurable, boundless, incalculable such crimes — how could my body and mind not pain me? And I have no good physician to heal my body and mind." The minister said: "Great king, do not give yourself over to such great sorrow." And he spoke this verse: "Should one forever give way to sorrow, / that sorrow only increases and grows. / It is like a person who delights in sleep — / the more he sleeps, the more sleep he craves. / Craving lust and delighting in wine / are both exactly the same. As for what the great king has said, that there are five kinds of persons in this world who cannot escape hell — who has gone there and seen it, and come back to tell the king so? To speak of 'hell' is simply something that clever talkers among the world say. As for what the great king has said, that the world has no good physician to heal body and mind — there is now a great physician named Pūraṇa, who possesses all knowledge and vision, has attained mastery in meditative concentration, has, in the end, cultivated a pure and holy conduct, and forever expounds, for immeasurable, boundless beings, the path of unsurpassed nirvāṇa. He teaches his disciples a dharma of this kind: there is no dark karma and no fruit of dark karma; there is no bright karma and no fruit of bright karma; there is no karma both dark and bright and no fruit of karma both dark and bright; there is no superior karma and no inferior karma at all. This teacher now dwells within the city of Rājagṛha — I beg the great king to bend his own journey and go to him, so that this teacher may heal your body and mind." The king answered: "Should he truly be able to destroy my crime in this way, I shall then take refuge in him."

There was another minister named Treasury-Virtue, who likewise went to the king, and spoke thus: "Great king, why is your face so haggard, your lips so parched, your voice so faint, your very complexion cracked and drawn, as though a timid man had seen a great and mortal enemy? What is it that troubles you so — is it your body, or your mind?" The king answered: "How could my body and mind not pain me? Blind with folly, lacking any eye of wisdom, I drew near to evil companions and made them my intimates, and, following the words of the wicked man Devadatta, wrongfully turned against the king of the true Dharma and had him killed. I once heard a wise man recite this verse: 'Should one give rise to an unwholesome thought toward one's parents, toward the Buddha, or toward his disciples, and carry out an evil act on account of it, the fruit of such a deed lies in the Avīci hell.' It is on account of this very matter that my mind is filled with terror and great anguish, and I have no good physician to come to my rescue." The great minister said further: "I beg the great king, for now, not to give way to sorrow and terror. There are two kinds of law: the law of the renunciant, and the law of the king. As for the law of the king — killing one's own father in order to rule the kingdom, though it is called a transgression, in truth carries no crime at all; it is like the kalalā insect, which must destroy its mother's own womb before it can be born — such is simply the nature of its birth, and, though it breaks its mother's body, in truth this, too, carries no crime. It is exactly the same with a mule's own pregnancy. The law that governs a kingdom is, by its very nature, of this kind — though one kills his own father or brother, in truth there is no crime in it at all. It is only the law of the renunciant where killing even a mosquito or an ant carries a crime. I beg the great king to ease his mind and not give way to sorrow. Why is this? 'Should one forever give way to sorrow, / that sorrow only increases and grows. / It is like a person who delights in sleep — / the more he sleeps, the more sleep he craves. / Craving lust and delighting in wine / are both exactly the same.' As for what the great king has said, that the world has no good physician to heal body and mind — there is now a great teacher named Maskarī Gośālīputra, who possesses all knowledge and vision, who has compassion for beings as though they were his own newborn children, who has already left affliction behind, and who is able to draw out the three poisons' own sharp arrows from beings. Not a single being possesses any knowledge, vision, or awareness with regard to any dharma at all — he alone possesses this knowledge, vision, and awareness. A teacher of this kind forever teaches his disciples a dharma of this kind: 'Every being's own body consists of seven parts. What are these seven? Earth, water, fire, wind, suffering, pleasure, and life. These seven dharmas are neither conjured nor made, and cannot be destroyed or harmed at all. Like the īṣīkā grass, they abide, unmoving; like Mount Sumeru, they are neither abandoned nor produced; like curds and whey, each remains apart from the others, without contention. Whether in suffering or in pleasure, whether wholesome or unwholesome, should a sharp blade be thrust into them, nothing at all is harmed. Why is this? Because these seven parts, being empty like space, admit of no obstruction. Life, too, cannot be harmed. Why is this? Because there exists no one who harms, and no one who dies. There is no action and no receiving of its fruit, no speaking and no hearing, no one who thinks and no one who teaches. He forever teaches this dharma, and is able to cause beings to destroy and remove every immeasurable, grave crime.' This teacher now dwells within the great city of Rājagṛha — I beg the great king to go to where he is; should the king see him, every crime shall be extinguished." The king answered: "Should he truly be able to remove my crime in this way, I shall then take refuge in him."

There was another minister, named True-Attainment, who likewise came to the king, and spoke this verse: "Great king, why have you cast off your jeweled ornaments, and let your hair fall into such disarray, to such a degree as this? Why does the king's own body tremble so, unable to find peace, like a fierce wind shaking the blossoming trees? Why is the king's own complexion so sorrowful and drawn today — as sorrowful as a farmer's, after he has sown his seed, when the sky will not send down rain? Is it your mind that pains you, or your body?" The king answered: "How could my body and mind not pain me? My father, the former king, in his compassion and affection, showed me particular tenderness and love, and was, in truth, entirely without fault — and yet, when he once went to ask a physiognomist, the physiognomist answered him: 'This child, once born, is fated certainly to kill his own father.' Though he heard these words, he still raised and cared for me all the same. I once heard a wise man speak in this way: 'Whoever violates his own mother, or a nun, or steals property belonging to the Saṅgha, or kills one who has given rise to the unsurpassed bodhi-mind, or kills his own father — such a person will, in the end, most certainly fall into the Avīci hell.' How could my body and mind not pain me now?" The great minister said further: "I beg the great king, for now, not to give way to sorrow. Should one's father have been a cultivator of liberation, killing him would indeed carry a crime; but under the law that governs a kingdom, such a killing carries no crime at all. Great king — what is unlawful is called unlawful, and what has no dharma at all is called dharma-less. It is like calling a man 'sonless' when he has no son, and likewise calling a man 'sonless' when he has only a wicked son — though he is called sonless, in truth he is not without a son at all. It is like calling food 'saltless' when it lacks salt, and calling it 'saltless,' too, when it has only a little salt. It is like calling a river 'waterless' when it lacks water, and calling it 'waterless,' too, when it has only a little water. It is like calling something impermanent because it perishes, thought after thought, and calling it impermanent, too, even should it endure for an entire kalpa. It is like calling a person 'joyless' when he undergoes suffering, and calling him 'joyless,' too, even when he experiences a little joy. It is like calling something 'selfless' when it lacks mastery over itself, and calling it 'selfless,' too, even when it has a little mastery. It is like calling it 'sunless' in the darkness of night, and calling it 'sunless,' too, at a time of cloud and mist. Great king, though something is said to have but a little of a dharma, and is therefore called dharma-less, in truth it is not without dharma at all. I beg the king to attend closely to what his servant is about to say: every being possesses residual karma of every kind, and, on account of the conditions of this karma, undergoes birth and death again and again. Should your former father, the king, have possessed residual karma of his own, what crime at all could there be in the present king's having killed him? I beg the great king to ease his mind and not give way to sorrow. Why is this? 'Should one forever give way to sorrow, / that sorrow only increases and grows. / It is like a person who delights in sleep — / the more he sleeps, the more sleep he craves. / Craving lust and delighting in wine / are both exactly the same.' As for what the great king has said, that the world has no good physician to heal body and mind — there is now a great teacher named Sañjaya Vairaṭīputra, who possesses all knowledge and vision, whose wisdom is as deep and profound as the great ocean itself, who possesses great and awesome virtue, is endowed with great spiritual powers, and is able to free beings from every net of doubt. Not a single being possesses knowledge, vision, or awareness — he alone possesses this knowledge, vision, and awareness. He now dwells nearby, within the city of Rājagṛha, and teaches his disciples a dharma of this kind: 'Among all beings, whoever is a king acts entirely as he pleases, freely doing good or evil — and, though he commits every evil, none of it carries any crime whatsoever. It is like fire, which, in burning something, makes no distinction between the pure and the impure — the king is exactly the same, sharing fire's own nature. It is like the great earth, which bears the pure and the impure alike, and, in doing so, feels neither anger nor joy from the start — the king is exactly the same, sharing the earth's own nature. It is like the nature of water, which washes the pure and the impure both alike, and, in doing so, feels neither sorrow nor joy — the king is exactly the same, sharing water's own nature. It is like the nature of wind, which blows equally upon the pure and the impure, and, in doing so, feels neither sorrow nor joy — the king is exactly the same, sharing wind's own nature. It is like a tree stripped bare in autumn, which grows again once spring returns — though it was stripped and cut, in truth this carries no crime at all. Every being is exactly the same: dying here in this place, it is reborn again in this very same place — and, since it is reborn again, what crime at all could there be in this? The fruits of suffering and pleasure that every being undergoes are none of them caused by karma of the present life at all; their cause lies in the past, and it is in the present that their fruit is received. The present has no cause, and the future has no fruit. It is on account of this present fruit that beings uphold the precepts and diligently practice with vigor, so as to block off the evil fruit of the present; and, through upholding the precepts, they attain what is free of outflow, and, having attained what is free of outflow, they exhaust every karma subject to outflow, and, through exhausting this karma, every suffering comes to its end, and, through the ending of every suffering, they attain liberation.' I beg the great king to hasten to where he dwells, and let him heal the suffering of your body and mind — should the king see him, every crime shall then be removed." The king answered: "Should there truly be such a teacher, able to remove my crime, I shall then take refuge in him."

There was another minister, named Knower-of-Meaning, who likewise came to the king, and spoke thus: "Why does the king's own form, today, lack all dignity and grace, like a ruler who has lost his kingdom, like a spring that has run dry, a pond without any lotus, a tree without flower or leaf, or a precept-breaking monk, whose body possesses no majesty at all? Is it your body that pains you, or your mind?" The king answered: "How could my body and mind not pain me? My father, the former king, showed me compassionate and loving care, and yet I proved unfilial, not knowing how to repay this kindness. He forever gave me peace and happiness, and yet I turned against this kindness, and instead cut off his own peace and happiness — my former father, the king, entirely innocent, I wrongfully turned against and had killed. I once heard a wise man say: 'Whoever kills his own father shall, for immeasurable, incalculable kalpas, undergo great suffering and anguish.' I shall soon, without fail, fall into hell, and I have no good physician to save and heal my crime." The great minister said: "I beg the great king to set aside his sorrow and anguish. Has the king not heard? In ages past, there was a king named Rāma, who, having killed his own father, thereby succeeded to the throne. King Bhadrika, King Vairocana, King Nahuṣa, King Kaikeya, King Viśākha, King Moonlight, King Sunlight, King Kāma, and King Dhṛtarāṣṭra — every one of these kings killed his own father and succeeded to the throne, and yet not a single one of these kings entered hell. And, among kings living now in the present — King Vaidūrya, King Udāyana, King Evil-Nature, King Mouse, King Lotus — every one of these kings, too, killed his own father, and not a single one of them has given rise to any sorrow or anguish over it. As for hell, hungry ghosts, and the heavens — who has ever actually seen them? Great king, there exist only two realms of being: the realm of humans, and the realm of animals. Though these two exist, they are neither produced by cause and condition nor destroyed by cause and condition. If there is no cause and condition, how could there be any good or evil at all? I beg the great king not to harbor sorrow and terror. Why is this? 'Should one forever give way to sorrow, / that sorrow only increases and grows. / It is like a person who delights in sleep — / the more he sleeps, the more sleep he craves. / Craving lust and delighting in wine / are both exactly the same.' As for what the great king has said, that the world has no good physician to heal body and mind — there is now a great teacher named Ajita Keśakambalī, who possesses all knowledge and vision, and regards gold and dirt as entirely equal, without any difference between them. Should a blade cut open a man's right side while his left is anointed with sandalwood paste, his mind would find no distinction whatsoever between these two men — he views friend and foe with perfect equanimity, his mind holding to no distinction between them at all. This teacher is truly the world's own good physician; whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, he forever abides in meditative absorption, his mind never scattered, and he tells his disciples this: 'Whether one acts oneself or teaches another to act; whether one cuts something oneself or teaches another to cut it; whether one burns something oneself or teaches another to burn it; whether one harms something oneself or teaches another to harm it; whether one steals oneself or teaches another to steal; whether one commits adultery oneself or teaches another to commit it; whether one lies oneself or teaches another to lie; whether one drinks liquor oneself or teaches another to drink it; whether one kills the people of a single village, a single city, or an entire kingdom; whether one kills every being with a wheel of blades; whether one gives generously to beings south of the Gaṅgā, or kills beings north of the Gaṅgā — none of this carries any crime or merit whatsoever, and there is no such thing as giving, moral discipline, or meditative concentration.' He now dwells nearby, within the city of Rājagṛha — I beg the king to go there quickly; should the king see him, every crime shall be removed." The king said: "Great minister, should he truly be able to remove my crime in this way, I shall then take refuge in him."

There was a great minister named Auspicious-Virtue, who likewise went to the king, and spoke thus: "Why is the king's own countenance so lusterless today — like a lamp lit at noon, like the moon in daytime, like a ruler who has lost his kingdom, like a wasted and ruined land? Great king, the four quarters are now at peace, free of every foe and enemy — why, then, such sorrow as this? Is it your body that suffers, or your mind? There are princes who forever give rise to this very thought: 'When shall I finally attain mastery of my own?' Great king, you have now achieved exactly this — the very mastery you once wished for. The king rules the whole kingdom of Magadha, having obtained the former king's own treasury in its entirety — you need only take your ease and give yourself freely over to pleasure. What use is there in dwelling on such sorrow as this?" The king answered: "How could I now avoid such sorrow and distress? Great minister, it is like a foolish man who craves only the flavor of his food and does not see the sharp blade concealed within it, like one who eats poisoned food and does not perceive its fault. I am exactly the same — like a deer that sees only the grass and does not see the deep pit beneath it, like a rat greedy for food that does not see the waiting cat. I am exactly the same: I see only the pleasure of the present, and do not see the unwholesome, painful fruit that is yet to come. I once heard a wise man say: 'It is better to endure three hundred piercings by an awl in a single day than to give rise to a single unwholesome thought toward one's own parents.' I have now drawn near to the blazing fire of hell itself — how could I avoid such sorrow and distress?" The great minister said further: "Who has deceived the king into saying that hell exists? The thorn's own point is sharp — who made it so? The flying bird's own varied colors — who fashioned them? Water is, by nature, moist and flowing; stone is, by nature, hard and firm; wind is, by nature, moving; fire is, by nature, hot — every single thing in the world dies of itself and is born of itself; who has made any of this? To speak of 'hell' is nothing but a fabrication of clever rhetoricians — what meaning at all could speaking of hell possibly have? Let your servant explain it: 'earth' (地) means the ground, and 'prison' (獄) means to break; breaking free of the underworld carries no retribution for any crime — this is what is meant by 'hell' (地獄). And, further, 'earth' means human, and 'prison' means heaven; having killed his own father, he thereby arrives among gods and men — it is for this very reason that the sage Vāsu proclaimed that killing a sheep brings the pleasures of gods and men, and this, too, is what is meant by 'hell.' And, further, 'earth' means life, and 'prison' means long; through killing living beings, one obtains a long lifespan — this, too, is what is meant by 'hell.' Great king, you should therefore know that no hell exists in reality at all. Great king, it is like sowing wheat and reaping wheat, sowing rice and reaping rice — one who kills a denizen of hell shall in turn become a denizen of hell, and one who kills a human being shall in turn become a human being once more. Great king, hear now what your servant has to say: there is, in reality, no killing at all. Should a self exist, then, in reality, nothing at all is harmed; and should no self exist, then, likewise, there is nothing at all that is harmed. Why is this? Should a self exist, it would forever remain unchanging, and, being ever-abiding, could not be killed or harmed at all — unbreakable, indestructible, unbound, unfettered, without anger, without joy, just like empty space — how, then, could there be any crime of killing or harming at all? And should no self exist, then every dharma is impermanent, and, being impermanent, perishes thought after thought — and, perishing thought after thought, both the killer and the one killed alike perish thought after thought — and, if they perish thought after thought, who, then, could bear any crime at all? Great king, it is like fire burning wood — the fire itself carries no crime; like an axe felling a tree — the axe itself carries no crime; like a sickle cutting grass — the sickle itself carries no crime whatsoever; like a blade killing a man — the blade itself is not the man, and, the blade carrying no crime, how could the man himself carry any crime? Like poison killing a man — the poison itself is not the man, and the poison itself carries no crime — how could the man himself carry any crime? Every single thing is exactly the same: there is, in reality, no killing or harming at all — how, then, could there be any crime? I beg the great king not to give rise to sorrow and distress. Why is this? 'Should one forever give way to sorrow, / that sorrow only increases and grows. / It is like a person who delights in sleep — / the more he sleeps, the more sleep he craves. / Craving lust and delighting in wine / are both exactly the same.' As for what the great king has said, that the world has no good physician to heal an evil karma — there is now a great teacher named Kakuda Kātyāyana, who possesses all knowledge and vision, who understands clearly the three time-periods, and who, in the space of a single thought, is able to see immeasurable, boundless worlds, and to hear their every sound as well. He is able to cause beings to keep far away from every fault and evil, just as the Gaṅgā, whether within itself or without, keeps every one of its own impurities entirely clean. This great and excellent teacher is exactly the same: he is able to remove every internal and external crime of beings, and teaches his disciples a dharma of this kind: 'Should a person kill every being there is, yet feel no shame or remorse in his mind, he shall never, in the end, fall into any evil destiny at all — just as empty space accepts no dust or water; but should he feel shame and remorse, he falls straight into hell, just as a great flood moistens and soaks the earth. Every being is entirely the creation of Īśvara, the Lord of自在; when Īśvara is pleased, beings enjoy peace and happiness, and when Īśvara is angered, beings suffer anguish and pain. Whatever crime or merit any being has is entirely the doing of Īśvara — how, then, could it be said that any human being possesses crime or merit at all? It is like a craftsman who builds a mechanical wooden man, which walks, stands, sits, and lies down, lacking only the power of speech — every being is exactly the same; Īśvara is likened to the craftsman, and the wooden man is likened to the very body of any being — in such a creation as this, who, then, could bear any crime at all?' This great teacher now dwells nearby, within the city of Rājagṛha — I beg you to go there quickly; should you succeed in seeing him, every crime shall be extinguished." The king answered: "Should there truly be such a person, able to extinguish my crime, I shall then take refuge in him."

There was another minister, named Fearless, who went to the king, and spoke thus: "Great king, there are foolish people in this world who, within a single day, feel a hundred joys and a hundred sorrows, sleep a hundred times and wake a hundred times, feel a hundred frights and weep a hundred times — but a person of wisdom has nothing of this kind at all. Great king, why is your grief so great — like a traveler who has lost his companions, like one who has fallen into deep mire with no one to pull him out, like a man parched with thirst who can find no drink, like one who has lost his way with no guide to lead him, like a person gravely ill with no physician to save him, or like one whose ship has broken apart at sea with no one to rescue him? Great king, is it your body that pains you today, or your mind?" The king answered: "How could my body and mind not pain me? I drew near to evil companions and did not examine their faults of speech, and, my former father, the king, entirely innocent, I wrongfully turned against and had killed; I now know for certain that I shall fall into hell, and I have, again, no good physician to come to my rescue." The minister said: "I beg the great king not to give rise to such bitter sorrow. As for the kṣatriya — this is the very name of the royal lineage — whether acting for the sake of the kingdom, or for the sake of śramaṇas and brahmins, or for the sake of the people's own peace, though he should kill, he carries no crime in it at all. Though your former father, the king, showed reverence to the śramaṇas, he was unable to serve the brahmins as he ought, his mind lacking any impartiality — and, his mind lacking impartiality, he was therefore no true kṣatriya at all. Great king, in killing your former father precisely so that you might now make offerings to the brahmins, what crime at all could there be? Great king, there is, in reality, no killing at all. As for 'killing' — this means killing one's own lifespan. Life is named the very breath of wind, and the nature of this breath of wind cannot be killed or harmed at all — how, then, could killing this life carry any crime? I beg the great king not to give way to sorrow any longer. Why is this? 'Should one forever give way to sorrow, / that sorrow only increases and grows. / It is like a person who delights in sleep — / the more he sleeps, the more sleep he craves. / Craving lust and delighting in wine / are both exactly the same.' As for what the great king has said, that the world has no good physician to provide healing — there is now a great teacher named Nirgrantha Jñātiputra, who possesses all knowledge and vision, has compassion for beings, knows well the sharpness or dullness of every being's own faculties, and thoroughly understands every skillful means suited to each — untainted by any of the eight worldly dharmas, cultivating a tranquil and pure holy conduct — and he teaches his disciples in this way: 'There is no giving, no goodness, no father, no mother, no present world and no world to come, no arhat, no cultivation, and no path; every being, after passing through eighty thousand kalpas, is naturally freed from the wheel of birth and death, and this holds true whether one has committed a crime or not; it is like the four great rivers — the Sindhu, the Gaṅgā, the Vakṣu, and the Sītā — every one of which flows into the great ocean without any distinction remaining between them. Every being is exactly the same: at the moment of liberation, there is no distinction whatsoever remaining between them.' This teacher now dwells within the city of Rājagṛha — I beg the great king to hasten to where he is; should you succeed in seeing him, every crime shall be dispelled." The king answered: "Should there truly be such a teacher, able to remove my crime, I shall then take refuge in him."

At that time, the great physician named Jīvaka went to where the king was, and said: "Great king, are you able to sleep in peace?" The king answered with this verse:

"Jīvaka, my own illness is now grave: I turned against the king of the true Dharma and had him wrongfully killed, and no fine physician, no wondrous medicine, no incantation, no skillful means, and no attendant at my sickbed is able to cure it. Why is this? My father, the king of the Dharma, ruled his kingdom in accordance with the Dharma, and was, in truth, entirely without fault — and I wrongfully turned against him and had him killed. It is like a fish stranded on dry land — what joy could it possibly find? It is like a deer caught in a snare, with not the slightest joy left in it; like a man who knows for himself that his own life will not last out the day; like a king who has lost his kingdom and fled into exile in another land; like a man who hears that his own illness cannot be cured; or like a precept-breaker who hears his own transgression spoken aloud. I once heard a wise man say: 'Should the actions of body, speech, and mind fail to be pure, know that such a person must certainly fall into hell.' I am exactly the same — how could I possibly attain a peaceful sleep? And I now have no supreme physician at all, to expound the medicine of the Dharma and remove the suffering of my illness."

Jīvaka answered: "Excellent, excellent! Though the king has committed a crime, his mind has given rise to grave remorse, and he now holds both shame and remorse within him. Great king, every buddha, every world-honored one, forever speaks these words: 'There are two white dharmas that are able to save beings: the first is shame (慚), and the second is remorse (愧). Shame means not committing a crime oneself; remorse means not teaching another to commit one. Shame means feeling disgrace inwardly, within oneself; remorse means confessing it openly to others. Shame means feeling disgraced before other people; remorse means feeling disgraced before the gods. This is what is meant by shame and remorse. One without shame or remorse cannot be named a human being at all — he is named an animal. It is because one has shame and remorse that he is able to revere his own parents and teachers; and it is because one has shame and remorse that there is said to be such a thing as father, mother, brothers, and sisters at all.' Excellent, great king! You are fully endowed with both shame and remorse. Great king, hear this further: your servant has heard the Buddha say: 'The wise are of two kinds — one who commits no evil at all, and one who, having committed it, is able to confess and repent it; the foolish, too, are of two kinds — one who commits a crime, and one who conceals it. Though one has first committed an evil deed, if he is later able to confess it openly, and, having repented, feels shame and remorse and dares not commit it again, it is just like a pearl of great brightness placed within muddied water — through the pearl's own power, the water at once becomes clear; it is like clouds and mist dispersing, so that the moon shines forth pure and bright. Committing evil and yet being able to repent it is exactly the same.' Should the king confess and repent, holding both shame and remorse, his crime shall at once be extinguished, and he shall be as pure as he was at the very beginning. Great king, wealth is of two kinds: the first is elephants, horses, and every kind of livestock; the second is gold, silver, and every kind of precious treasure. However many elephants and horses one may have, they cannot match a single pearl. Great king, beings are exactly the same: there is a wealth of evil, and there is a wealth of good. Committing a great many evil deeds does not equal a single good one. Your servant has heard the Buddha say that cultivating a single wholesome thought is able to break a hundred kinds of evil. Great king, it is like how a small amount of vajra is able to destroy Mount Sumeru, or how a small fire is able to burn everything, or how a small amount of poison is able to harm every being — a small amount of good is exactly the same, able to break through even great evil. Though it is called a small good, in truth it is great. Why is this? Because it breaks through great evil. Great king, it is as the Buddha has taught: concealment is an outflow, and non-concealment has no outflow at all; confessing openly and repenting one's transgression is therefore free of outflow. Should one commit every kind of crime and yet neither conceal nor hide it, then, because it is not concealed, the crime becomes slight and thin; and should one hold shame and remorse, the crime is thereby extinguished entirely. Great king, it is like a drop of water — though minute, it gradually fills a great vessel; a wholesome thought is exactly the same — each and every wholesome thought is able to break through even great evil. Should one conceal his crime, the crime only grows and increases; should one confess it openly with shame and remorse, the crime is thereby extinguished — it is for this very reason that every buddha teaches that the wise do not conceal their crimes. Excellent, great king, that you are able to have faith in cause and effect, faith in karma, and faith in its fruit — I beg the great king not to harbor sorrow and terror any longer. Should any being commit every kind of crime, conceal it without repenting, hold no shame or remorse in his mind, fail to see cause and effect and the fruit of karma, be unable to consult a person of wisdom, and fail to draw near to a good and wise friend — such a person cannot be cured by any fine physician at all, nor even by any attendant at his sickbed. It is like the disease of leprosy, before which even the world's own physicians can only fold their hands in helplessness — one who conceals his own crime is exactly the same. What is meant by such a person of crime? This means the icchantika. The icchantika does not believe in cause and effect, is without shame or remorse, does not believe in karma and its fruit, does not perceive the present world or the world to come, does not draw near to a good and wise friend, and does not follow the teachings and precepts taught by every buddha — a person of this kind is named an icchantika, and cannot be cured by any buddha, any world-honored one, at all. Why is this? It is like a corpse already dead in this world, which no physician can cure. The icchantika is exactly the same — he cannot be cured by any buddha, any world-honored one, at all. The great king, at this moment, is no icchantika — how, then, could it be said that he cannot be saved and cured?"

"As for what the great king has said, that there is no one able to cure him — great king, you should know that the son of King Śuddhodana of the city of Kapilavastu, of the Gautama clan, named Siddhārtha, awakened without any teacher, attaining unsurpassed, complete awakening entirely of his own accord, his body adorned with the thirty-two marks and eighty subsidiary signs, fully endowed with the ten powers, the four kinds of fearlessness, all knowledge and vision, and great loving-kindness and great compassion; he has compassion for every being just as for his own son Rāhula, and follows and benefits beings just as a calf follows its mother; he speaks when the time is right, and stays silent when it is not; his speech is true, pure, wondrous, meaningful, in accord with the Dharma, and free of duplicity, and it is able to cause beings forever to leave affliction behind. He knows well the faculties, mind, and nature of every being, and is thoroughly versed in every skillful means suited to each. His wisdom towers as high as Mount Sumeru, and is as deep and vast as the great ocean itself. This Buddha, this World-Honored One, possesses a vajra-like wisdom, able to break through every evil crime of any being — to say that he is unable could not possibly be so. He is now, twelve leagues from here, among the twin sāla trees at the city of Kuśinagara, expounding every kind of dharma for the sake of an immeasurable, incalculable assembly of bodhisattva monks: whether existence or non-existence, whether the conditioned or the unconditioned, whether what is subject to outflow or what is free of it, whether the fruit of affliction or the fruit of a wholesome dharma, whether form or non-form or neither form nor non-form, whether self or non-self or neither self nor non-self, whether permanent or impermanent or neither permanent nor impermanent, whether pleasurable or not pleasurable or neither, whether marked or unmarked or neither, whether severance or non-severance or neither, whether worldly or transcending the world or neither, whether a vehicle or not a vehicle or neither, whether one acts and reaps the fruit oneself, or acts oneself and another reaps the fruit, or whether there is neither action nor the reaping of any fruit at all. Great king, should you go to where the Buddha is, and hear of this very absence of action and the reaping of its fruit, every one of your grave crimes shall at once be dissolved."

"Hear this further, great king: when Śakra, lord of the gods, was about to die, five signs appeared to him: first, his own robes became soiled and stained; second, the flowers upon his head withered; third, his own body grew foul and malodorous; fourth, sweat poured out from beneath his arms; and fifth, he no longer took pleasure in his own throne. At that time, Śakra, wherever he happened to see a śramaṇa or a brahmin in some quiet place, would go straight to him and take him for the Buddha himself. The śramaṇas and brahmins, seeing Śakra approach them, rejoiced deeply within themselves, and said: 'Lord of the gods, I now take refuge in you.' Śakra, hearing this, knew at once that this was not the Buddha, and thought to himself: 'If he is not the Buddha, he cannot cure my own five signs of decline.' At that time, his charioteer, named Pañcaśikha, said to Śakra: 'Kauśika, the gandharva king named Timbaru has a daughter named Suvarṇā — should the king be able to give me this daughter, I shall show the king a place where his signs of decline may be removed.' Śakra answered: 'Good man, the asura king Vemacitrin has a daughter named Śacī, whom I myself hold dear — should you truly be able to show me a place where my evil signs may be extinguished, I would give you even her, how much more this Suvarṇā?' 'Kauśika, there is a buddha, a world-honored one, named Śākyamuni, who now dwells in the great city of Rājagṛha — should you be able to go there and inquire of what you have not yet heard, your signs of decline shall certainly be removed.' 'Good man, should the Buddha, the World-Honored One, truly be able to remove them, then let us turn our chariot at once toward where he dwells.' The charioteer, receiving this command, at once turned the chariot around, and arrived at Mount Gṛdhrakūṭa near the city of Rājagṛha; going to where the Buddha was, he bowed his head to the Buddha's feet, withdrew to sit to one side, and said to the Buddha: 'World-Honored One, among gods and men, what is it that binds them?' 'Kauśika, it is stinginess, greed, and envy.' He asked further: 'From what cause do stinginess, greed, and envy arise?' The Buddha answered: 'They arise from the cause of ignorance.' He asked further: 'And from what cause does ignorance itself arise?' The Buddha answered: 'It arises from the cause of heedlessness.' He asked further: 'And from what cause does heedlessness itself arise?' The Buddha answered: 'It arises from the cause of inverted thinking.' He asked further: 'And from what cause does inverted thinking itself arise?' The Buddha answered: 'It arises from the cause of a mind of doubt.' 'World-Honored One, that inverted thinking arises from the cause of doubt is, in truth, just as the sacred teaching says. Why is this? I myself harbored a mind of doubt, and, because of this doubt, inverted thinking arose in me, so that I took one who was not the World-Honored One for the World-Honored One himself. Now that I have seen the Buddha, the net of doubt is at once removed, and, the net of doubt being removed, inverted thinking, too, is exhausted, and, inverted thinking being exhausted, there is no longer any mind of stinginess, nor even of envy, left in me.' The Buddha said: 'You say you are without any mind of stinginess or envy — have you, then, already attained the fruit of non-returning? A non-returner is without any mind of greed at all. If you have no mind of greed, why, then, have you come here seeking your own life? A non-returner, in truth, seeks nothing for his own life at all.' 'World-Honored One, one with inverted thinking seeks his own life, while one free of inverted thinking does not seek it. And yet I, in truth, seek nothing at all for my own life — what I seek is only the Buddha's own Dharma-body and the Buddha's own wisdom.' 'Kauśika, in seeking the Buddha's own Dharma-body and the Buddha's own wisdom, you shall, in a future age, most certainly attain them.' Hearing the Buddha say this, Śakra's own five signs of decline were at once dissolved entirely; he rose, made obeisance, circled the Buddha three times, and, with palms joined in reverence, said to the Buddha: 'World-Honored One, I have, in this very moment, both died and been reborn, both lost my life and regained it — and, further, having heard the Buddha's own prediction that I shall attain unsurpassed, complete awakening, this, too, is being born again, is gaining life again. World-Honored One, by what means do gods and men increase and flourish? And by what cause do they come to decline and diminish?' 'Kauśika, through the causes and conditions of conflict and strife, gods and men decline and diminish; through cultivating harmony and mutual respect well, they increase and flourish.' 'World-Honored One, if it is through conflict and strife that one declines and diminishes, then, from this day forward, I shall never again do battle with the asuras.' The Buddha said: 'Excellent, excellent, Kauśika! Every buddha, every world-honored one, teaches the dharma of patient forbearance as the very cause of unsurpassed, complete awakening.'"

"At that time, Śakra, lord of the gods, bowed before the Buddha and then withdrew. Great king, it is because the Tathāgata is able to remove every evil sign in this way that the Buddha is said to be inconceivable. Should the king go to him, every grave crime of yours must certainly be removed as well. Hear this further, great king: there was a brahmin's son named Ahiṃsaka, who, through killing immeasurable beings, came to be named Aṅgulimāla. He wished, further, to kill his own mother, and, as this evil thought arose in him, his body, too, trembled in response — and a trembling of body and mind such as this is itself the cause of one of the five gravest offenses, and, being the cause of one of the five gravest offenses, it must certainly lead to hell. Later, when he saw the Buddha, his body and mind trembled together once more, and he wished, again, to commit this killing — and this trembling of body and mind was, again, the cause of one of the five gravest offenses, and, being such a cause, would lead to hell. Yet this very person came to encounter the great teacher, the Tathāgata, and, in that very moment, was able to extinguish the cause leading to hell, and gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening — it is for this very reason that the Buddha is called the unsurpassed physician, unlike the six teachers."

"Great king, there was, further, a prince named Suvīra, whose own father, enraged at him, cut off his hands and feet and cast him into a deep well. His mother, taking pity on him, sent people to pull him out, and brought him to where the Buddha was. The moment he saw the Buddha, his hands and feet were fully restored, and he at once gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. Great king, it was through seeing the Buddha that he obtained this very fruit in this present life — it is for this very reason that the Buddha is called the unsurpassed physician, unlike the six teachers."

"Great king, there were, beside the Gaṅgā, hungry ghosts numbering, in all, five hundred, who, for immeasurable years, had never once seen water at all — even when they came to the riverbank, they saw only flowing fire, and, driven by hunger and thirst, cried out in anguish. At that time, the Tathāgata was seated beneath a tree in an udumbara grove beside that very river. The hungry ghosts came to where the Buddha was, and said to him: 'World-Honored One, we are starving and parched — our lives will not last much longer.' The Buddha said: 'The Gaṅgā flows with water — why do you not drink of it?' The ghosts answered: 'Where the Tathāgata sees water, we see only fire.' The Buddha said: 'The Gaṅgā's flow is, in truth, entirely pure, and has no fire in it at all — it is on account of your own evil karma that your minds are inverted, and you take it to be fire. I shall now remove this inversion for you, and cause you to see water instead.' The World-Honored One then broadly expounded, for the sake of these ghosts, the fault of stinginess and greed. The ghosts said: 'We are now so parched with thirst that, though we hear these words of the Dharma, none of it enters our minds at all.' The Buddha said: 'If you are so parched, you may first enter the river and drink your fill as you wish.' These ghosts, through the Buddha's own power, were at once able to drink the water. Having drunk the water, the Tathāgata then expounded every kind of teaching for them further, and, having heard this teaching, they all together gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening, cast off their forms as hungry ghosts, and attained the bodies of gods. Great king, it is for this very reason that the Buddha is called the unsurpassed physician, unlike the six teachers."

"Great king, there was, in the kingdom of Śrāvastī, a band of five hundred bandits whose eyes King Prasenajit had gouged out; having no one to guide them, they were unable to make their own way to where the Buddha was. The Buddha, out of compassion for them, went himself to where these bandits were, and comforted them, saying: 'Good men, guard well your body and speech, and commit no further evil.' The bandits, hearing the Tathāgata's own voice, subtle and wondrous, pure and clear, at once had their sight restored. They joined their palms and bowed before the Buddha, and said to him: 'World-Honored One, we now know that the Buddha's own compassionate mind covers every being universally, not only gods and men.' The Tathāgata then expounded the Dharma for them. Having heard this teaching, they all together gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. It is for this very reason that the Tathāgata is truly the world's own unsurpassed, good physician, unlike the six teachers. Great king, there was, further, in the kingdom of Śrāvastī, an outcaste named Vāyusa, who had killed immeasurable people; upon seeing the Buddha's own disciple, Mahāmaudgalyāyana, he was at once able to break through the cause leading to hell, and was reborn above, among the Trāyastriṃśa gods. It is because such a noble disciple as this exists that the Tathāgata, the Buddha, is called the unsurpassed physician, unlike the six teachers."

"Great king, there was, in the city of Vārāṇasī, a householder's son named Ajita, who committed incest with his own mother in secret, and, on account of this very deed, murdered his own father. His mother then took up with another man in turn, and the son, learning of it, killed her as well. There was an arhat who was his own close friend, and, feeling shame and disgrace before this very friend, he killed him too. Having killed him, he went at once to the Jetavana monastery, seeking to become a renunciant. The monks there, knowing full well that this man bore three of the gravest offenses, dared not admit him. Refused, his anger and resentment redoubled, and, that very night, he set a great and fierce fire, burning down the monks' own quarters and killing many innocent people. He then went on to the city of Rājagṛha, and, coming to where the Tathāgata was, begged in anguish to become a renunciant. The Tathāgata admitted him at once, and expounded the essentials of the Dharma for him, causing his own grave crimes to grow gradually lighter, until he gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. It is for this very reason that the Buddha is called the world's own good physician, unlike the six teachers."

"Great king, the king himself, by nature violent and evil, once trusted the wicked man Devadatta, and released a great, drunken elephant, hoping it would trample the Buddha underfoot. Yet, the moment the elephant saw the Buddha, it awoke to sobriety at once. The Buddha reached out his hand and stroked the crown of its head, and then expounded the Dharma for it, causing it, too, to give rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. Great king, if even an animal, upon seeing the Buddha, can have its own animal karmic fruit broken through in this way, how much more so a human being? The great king should know that, should he see the Buddha, every grave crime of his must certainly be extinguished as well. Great king, before the World-Honored One had yet attained unsurpassed, complete awakening, Māra, together with an immeasurable, boundless retinue, came to where the bodhisattva was. The bodhisattva, at that time, through the power of patient forbearance, broke through Māra's own evil intent, causing Māra to accept the Dharma, and Māra, too, thereupon gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. The Buddha possesses great meritorious power of exactly this kind."

"Great king, there was a demon of the wilderness who harmed a great many beings. The Tathāgata, at that time, appeared as the householder Sudhana, and went to the wilderness village to teach the Dharma to this demon. The demon, hearing the Dharma, rejoiced, and thereupon surrendered the householder himself into the Tathāgata's own hands, after which the demon, too, gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. Great king, there was, in the kingdom of Vārāṇasī, a butcher named Vipula, who killed innumerable sheep, day after day. Upon seeing Śāriputra, he undertook the eight precepts for a single day and night, and, on account of this very deed, upon his death, he became a son of Vaiśravaṇa, the heavenly king of the north. If even the Tathāgata's own disciple can bring about so great a meritorious fruit as this, how much more so the Buddha himself? Great king, in northern India, there was a city named Fine Stone, whose king, named Nāgamudrā, coveting the weighty position of the throne, murdered his own father. Having murdered his father, remorse arose in his mind, and he abandoned the affairs of the kingdom entirely, and came to where the Buddha was, begging in anguish to become a renunciant. The Buddha said: 'Welcome.' He at once became a monk, his grave crime was extinguished, and he gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. The great king should know that the Buddha possesses immeasurable, boundless meritorious fruit of exactly this kind."

"Great king, the Tathāgata has a younger cousin, Devadatta, who broke apart the Saṅgha, drew the Buddha's own blood, and killed the nun Utpalavarṇā, committing three of the gravest offenses. The Tathāgata expounded every kind of essential teaching for him, causing his own grave crimes swiftly to grow light. It is for this very reason that the Tathāgata is the great, good physician, unlike the six teachers. Great king, should you be able to trust your servant's own words, I beg you to hasten at once to where the Tathāgata is; and, should you not trust them, I beg you to consider this well all the same. Great king, every buddha, every world-honored one, extends his great compassion universally, without limiting it to any single person; the true Dharma is vast and broad, embracing everything without exception; regarding friend and foe with perfect equality, his mind holds neither hatred nor favoritism, and he never, in the end, shows partiality toward any single person alone, causing him to attain unsurpassed, complete awakening while withholding it from everyone else. The Tathāgata is not the teacher of the fourfold assembly alone, but is, universally, the teacher of every god, human, dragon, spirit, denizen of hell, animal, and hungry ghost — and every being, too, should regard the Buddha as though he were their own father and mother. The great king should know: the Tathāgata does not expound the Dharma for the noble and eminent King Bhadrika alone, but also for the lowly Upāli. He does not receive only the food offered by the wealthy elder Anāthapiṇḍada, but also the food of the poor man likewise named Sudatta. He does not teach only the sharp-witted Śāriputra and those like him, but also the dull-witted Cūḍapanthaka. He does not permit only those of a naturally unacquisitive disposition, like Mahākāśyapa, to become renunciants and seek the path, but also permits the greatly acquisitive Nanda to become a renunciant. He does not permit only those of slight affliction, like Uruvilvā-Kāśyapa, to become renunciants and seek the path, but also permits Udāyin, King Prasenajit's own brother, whose affliction runs deep and who has committed grave crimes, to become a renunciant and seek the path as well. He did not reach out only to offer respectful reverence with a blade of kuśa grass to draw out the root of anger, while abandoning and refusing to save Aṅgulimāla, whose evil mind sought to kill him. He does not expound the Dharma only for men of wisdom, but teaches, too, the extremely foolish and dim-witted woman. He does not cause only renunciants to attain the four fruits of the path, but causes those who remain householders to attain three of these fruits as well. He does not expound the essentials of the Dharma only for those like Pūrṇa, who has set aside every busy affair to contemplate in quiet leisure, but also for those like King Bimbisāra, who governs the affairs of state and administers the business of the realm. He does not teach only those who abstain from wine, but teaches, too, the elder Ugra, sodden and besotted, addicted to drink. He does not teach only those absorbed in meditative concentration, like Revata, but teaches, too, the brahmin woman Vāsiṣṭhī, her mind deranged from the loss of her child. He does not teach only his own disciples, but teaches, too, the followers of other schools, like the Nirgrantha. He does not teach only those in the full vigor of their youth, at twenty-five years of age, but teaches, too, the aged and infirm at eighty. He does not teach only those whose faculties are already ripe, but teaches, too, those whose wholesome roots have not yet ripened. He does not teach only Queen Mallikā, but teaches, too, the courtesan Utpalavarṇā. He does not accept only the fine and delicious food offered by King Prasenajit, but also accepted the poisoned food offered by the elder Śrīgupta. The great king should know that Śrīgupta, too, in ages past, was himself the very cause of a grave offense, and yet, upon encountering the Buddha and hearing the Dharma, at once gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening.

"Great king, were one to spend an entire month forever making offerings of clothing and food, in reverence, to every being, this would still not equal one sixteenth of the merit that a single person gains through a single thought of recollecting the Buddha. Great king, were one to have gold forged into figures of men, chariots, and horses laden with treasure, a hundred of each, and give them all away in charity, this would still not equal the merit of a single person who, giving rise to the resolve to turn toward the Buddha, takes but a single step in his direction. Great king, were one, further, to give away a hundred chariots drawn by elephants, laden with every kind of treasure from the land of Da Qin, together with a hundred women adorned with jeweled ornaments upon their bodies, this would still not equal the merit of giving rise to the resolve to turn toward the Buddha and taking but a single step. Let that matter rest — were one to make offerings of the four requisites to every being throughout a great trichiliocosm, this would still not equal the merit of giving rise to the resolve to turn toward the Buddha and taking but a single step. Let that matter rest as well — were the great king to make offerings, in reverence, to beings as numerous as the sands of the Gaṅgā, immeasurable in number, this would still not equal a single journey to the twin sāla trees, to where the Tathāgata is, to listen to the Dharma there with a sincere heart."

At that time, the great king answered: "Jīvaka, the Tathāgata, the World-Honored One, is by nature already gentle and tamed, and it is for this very reason that he has gathered a retinue that is, itself, gentle and tamed — just as a forest of sandalwood is surrounded only by sandalwood trees. The Tathāgata is pure, and so, too, is his entire retinue pure. It is like a great dragon, whose retinue is made up only of dragons. The Tathāgata is tranquil, and so, too, is his entire retinue tranquil. The Tathāgata is free of greed, and so, too, is his entire retinue free of greed. The Buddha is free of affliction, and so, too, is his entire retinue free of affliction. I myself, however, am now a man of the utmost evil, wrapped and bound in evil karma, my very body foul and stinking, already fettered and bound over to hell — how could I possibly come before the Tathāgata? Should I go there, I fear he would give me no regard at all, nor exchange a single word with me. Though you urge me to go to where the Buddha is, I, today, feel only the deepest self-loathing and grief, and have, in truth, not the slightest intention of going at all."

At that time, a voice suddenly issued forth from empty space, saying: "The unsurpassed Buddha-dharma is about to decline and perish; this very deep river of the Dharma is about to run dry; the great, bright lamp of the Dharma is about to be extinguished before long; the mountain of the Dharma is about to crumble, the ship of the Dharma is about to sink; the bridge of the Dharma is about to collapse, the hall of the Dharma is about to fall into ruin; the banner of the Dharma is about to topple, the tree of the Dharma is about to snap; the good and wise friend is about to depart, and great terror is about to arrive; beings starved of the Dharma will soon appear before long; the plague of affliction is about to spread abroad; the time of great darkness has come, the time of thirst for the Dharma has arrived; the demon king rejoices and loosens his own armor, as the sun of the Buddha is about to set behind the mountain of great nirvāṇa. Great king, should the Buddha depart from this world, your own grave evil shall have no one left at all to cure it. Great king, you have now already created the extremely grave karma that leads to the Avīci hell, and, on account of this very karma, you must certainly undergo its fruit, without any doubt at all. Great king, 'a' means without, and 'vīci' means interval — where there is not the slightest interval of respite, this is what is meant by 'without interval.' Great king, suppose a single person alone were to fall into this hell — his own body would grow to a length of eighty thousand leagues, filling it entirely, without the slightest empty space remaining, and his body, on every side, would undergo every kind of suffering; and, should many people fall into it at once, their bodies, too, would each fill it entirely, without impeding one another in the slightest. Great king, in the cold hells, one who encounters, for even a moment, a warm wind counts it as a pleasure; in the hot hells, one who encounters, for even a moment, a cool wind counts it, too, as a pleasure; in the reviving hells, should one's life come to an end, upon hearing a certain sound, one is at once revived once more — but in the Avīci hell, there is nothing of this kind at all. Great king, the Avīci hell has gates on all four sides, and, outside each and every gate, there burns a fierce fire, passing through and connecting in every direction, east, west, south, and north, across the full eighty thousand leagues; it is entirely surrounded by walls of iron and nets of iron that cover it over completely, and even its very ground is iron, the fire above passing through to below, and the fire below passing through to above. Great king, it is like a fish placed upon a griddle, its very fat and flesh scorched and blackened — the guilty beings within this hell are exactly the same. Great king, one who commits a single one of the five gravest offenses undergoes this suffering in its full measure just once; should one commit two of these offenses, the suffering is doubled; and should one commit all five in full, the suffering, too, is multiplied fivefold. Great king, I now know for certain that you shall by no means escape the fruit of your own evil karma. I beg the great king to hasten at once to where the Buddha is — apart from the Buddha, the World-Honored One, there is no one else at all who can save you. It is out of pity for you that I now offer you this counsel."

At that time, the great king, hearing these words, was filled with terror and dread, his whole body trembling, his five limbs shaking like a plantain tree in the wind, and he looked up and answered: "Who are you? You show no bodily form at all, but only a voice." "Great king, I am your own father, Bimbisāra. You should now follow what Jīvaka has told you, and not follow the words of your six ministers of wrong view." Hearing this, the king fainted at once and fell to the ground; the sores upon his body grew even more severe, their foulness doubled from before, and, though cooling medicine was applied to treat them, the sores only burned and festered all the more, growing worse without the slightest relief.