The King Who Went to the Buddha

At that time, the World-Honored One, between the twin sāla trees, saw Ajātaśatru faint and fall to the ground, and said at once to the great assembly: "I shall now remain in this world, for the sake of this king, for immeasurable kalpas, and shall not enter nirvāṇa." The bodhisattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, should the Tathāgata remain, and not enter nirvāṇa, for the sake of immeasurable beings, why do you speak of doing so for Ajātaśatru alone?" The Buddha said: "Good son, within this great assembly, there is not a single person who believes that I shall, in the end, most certainly enter nirvāṇa — but Ajātaśatru is entirely certain that I am about to be extinguished forever, and it is for this very reason that he fainted and threw himself to the ground. Good son, when I say that I do this for Ajātaśatru's sake, and shall not enter nirvāṇa, this is a secret meaning you are not yet able to grasp. Why is this? When I say 'for the sake of,' I mean every ordinary being; 'Ajātaśatru' takes in universally everyone who has committed one of the five gravest offenses. And, further, 'for the sake of' means every conditioned being — I shall never remain in this world for the sake of any unconditioned being at all. Why is this? What is unconditioned is not a being at all. 'Ajātaśatru' means one fully endowed with affliction. And, further, 'for the sake of' means beings who do not yet see buddha-nature — should they see buddha-nature, I would never, in the end, remain long in this world for their sake. Why is this? One who sees buddha-nature is not a being at all. 'Ajātaśatru' means everyone who has not yet given rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening. And, further, 'for the sake of' means the two assemblies of Ānanda and Kāśyapa; 'Ajātaśatru' means King Ajātaśatru himself, the women of his own harem, and every woman throughout the city of Rājagṛha. And, further, 'for the sake of' names buddha-nature itself. 'Ajā' means unborn, and 'śatru' means enemy; because buddha-nature is not born, the enemy of affliction is born, and, the enemy of affliction being born, buddha-nature is not seen; and because affliction is not born, buddha-nature is seen, and, buddha-nature being seen, one abides securely in this great nirvāṇa. This is what is meant by unborn — it is for this very reason that this is called 'for the sake of Ajātaśatru.' Good son, 'ajā' means unborn, and unborn means nirvāṇa; 'śatru' means worldly dharma, and 'for the sake of' means undefiled; because he is undefiled by the eight worldly dharmas, he does not enter nirvāṇa for immeasurable, boundless, incalculable kalpas. It is for this very reason that I say I do this for Ajātaśatru's sake, and shall not enter nirvāṇa for immeasurable koṭis of kalpas. Good son, the Tathāgata's secret speech is inconceivable; the Buddha, the Dharma, and the holy Saṅgha, too, are inconceivable; the bodhisattva-mahāsattva, too, is inconceivable; and this great Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, too, is inconceivable."

At that time, the World-Honored One, the great, compassionate guide, entered the moon-love samādhi for the sake of King Ajātaśatru. Having entered this samādhi, he emitted a great light, cool and refreshing, which reached out and shone upon the king's own body, and, at once, his sores were healed, their feverish inflammation entirely removed. The king, feeling his sores healed and his body cool and at ease, said to Jīvaka: "I once heard it said that, when a kalpa is about to end, three moons appear together in the sky, and, at that time, every being's own affliction and suffering is entirely removed. That time has not yet come — from where, then, has this light come, to touch my own body, remove the suffering of my sores, and grant my body such peace and ease?" Jīvaka answered: "This is not the light of three moons appearing together at a kalpa's end, nor is it the light of fire, sun, star, herb, jewel, or any heavenly light." The king asked further: "If this light is not the light of three moons together, nor the brightness of a jewel, then whose light is it?" "Great king, you should know that this is a light emitted by the god beyond gods himself; this light has no root and no boundary at all — neither hot nor cold, neither permanent nor extinguished, neither form nor formless, neither marked nor unmarked, neither blue, yellow, red, nor white. It is only for the sake of saving beings that it is made visible, given a describable mark, a root, a boundary, heat and cold, and the colors blue, yellow, red, and white. Great king, though this light is such, in truth it cannot be described at all, nor beheld at all, nor does it possess, in the end, any blue, yellow, red, or white whatsoever." The king said: "Jīvaka, for what cause and condition has that god beyond gods emitted this light?" "Great king, this very auspicious sign has now appeared for the great king's own sake. Because the king earlier said that the world holds no good physician to heal his body and mind, this light was emitted first to heal the king's own body, and only afterward to heal his mind." The king said: "Jīvaka, does the Tathāgata, the World-Honored One, truly take notice of me and think of me?" Jīvaka answered: "It is like a man who has seven sons; should one of these seven sons fall ill, it is not that the parents' own mind lacks impartiality toward all seven — and yet their mind naturally inclines more toward the sick child. Great king, the Tathāgata is exactly the same: it is not that his mind lacks impartiality toward every being — and yet his mind naturally inclines more heavily toward one who has committed a crime. Toward the heedless, the Buddha holds a compassionate thought; toward the heedful, his mind lets go and does not dwell on them at all. Who is meant by 'the heedful'? This means the bodhisattva of the sixth abiding stage. Great king, every buddha, every world-honored one, regarding every being, gives no regard at all to caste, to youth, old age, or middle age, to wealth or poverty, to season, to sun, moon, or star, to skill or craft, to low station, or to servant or slave — he regards only whether a being possesses a wholesome mind, and, should such a wholesome mind be present, he holds it in compassionate regard at once. The great king should know that this very auspicious sign is precisely the light emitted by the Tathāgata upon entering the moon-love samādhi."

The king then asked: "What is meant by the moon-love samādhi?" Jīvaka answered: "It is like the moon's own light, which is able to cause every blue lotus to unfold in bright and fresh bloom — the moon-love samādhi is exactly the same, able to cause the wholesome mind of every being to unfold in just this way; it is for this reason that it is named the moon-love samādhi. Great king, it is like the moon's own light, which is able to cause every traveler upon the road to feel joy in his heart — the moon-love samādhi is exactly the same, able to cause one who cultivates the path of nirvāṇa to feel joy in his heart; it is for this reason, too, that it is named the moon-love samādhi. Great king, it is like the moon's own light, which, from the first day of the month to the fifteenth, grows gradually greater in its form and brightness — the moon-love samādhi is exactly the same, causing the wholesome roots of one who has just given rise to the bodhi-mind to grow gradually greater, until they become fully complete in this great nirvāṇa; it is for this reason, too, that it is named the moon-love samādhi. Great king, it is like the moon's own light, which, from the sixteenth day of the month to the thirtieth, diminishes gradually in its form and brightness — the moon-love samādhi is exactly the same, causing every affliction, wherever this light shines, to be gradually extinguished; it is for this reason, too, that it is named the moon-love samādhi. Great king, it is like how, in the season of great heat, every being forever longs for the moon's own light, and, once the moon shines forth, the sweltering heat is at once removed — the moon-love samādhi is exactly the same, able to remove the feverish heat of craving and affliction from every being. Great king, it is like the full moon, king among every star, possessed of the flavor of ambrosia, beloved and cherished by every being — the moon-love samādhi is exactly the same, king among every wholesome thing, possessed of the flavor of ambrosia, beloved and cherished by every being; it is for this reason, too, that it is named the moon-love samādhi."

The king said: "I have heard that the Tathāgata does not dwell, sit, rise, or converse together with evil people — just as the great ocean does not harbor any dead corpse within it, just as the mandarin duck does not dwell in a latrine, just as Śakra, lord of the gods, does not dwell together with spirits, and just as the kokila bird does not perch upon a withered tree. The Tathāgata is exactly the same — how, then, could I possibly go before him? And, should I see him, would my own body not sink straight into the earth? As I consider the Tathāgata, I think he would sooner draw near a drunken elephant, a lion, a tiger, a wolf, or a raging, blazing fire than ever draw near a person of such grave evil as myself. Having pondered this well, what state of mind at all could I possibly have, going to see the Tathāgata?" Jīvaka answered: "Great king, it is like a man parched with thirst, who hastens swiftly to a clear spring; one starving, who seeks food; one afraid, who seeks rescue; one ill, who seeks a good physician; one overheated, who seeks the cool shade; and one who is cold, who seeks fire — the king's own seeking of the Buddha should be exactly the same. Great king, the Tathāgata even expounds the essentials of the Dharma for the icchantika himself — how much more so should the great king, who is no icchantika at all, fail to receive his compassionate rescue?" The king said: "Jīvaka, I once heard that the icchantika neither believes nor hears, is unable to observe, and cannot grasp the meaning of the Dharma at all — why, then, does the Tathāgata expound the Dharma for him?"

Jīvaka answered: "Great king, it is like a man who has fallen gravely ill, and who, one night, dreams that he climbs a single-pillared hall, anoints and smears his own body with butter and oil, lies in ashes and eats ashes, climbs a withered tree, or wanders, sits, and lies down together with monkeys, sinks into water and mire, falls from towers, halls, high mountains, and trees, or among elephants, horses, cattle, and sheep, dresses his body in robes of blue, yellow, red, and black, laughs with delight and sings and dances, or sees crows, vultures, foxes, and the like; his teeth and hair fall out, he lies naked, his head pillowed on a dog, in a heap of filth; he walks, stands, sits, and rises together with the dead, joins hands with them and eats together with them; poisonous snakes fill the road, through which he passes; or he dreams, further, of embracing a woman with disheveled hair, clothing himself in palm leaves, and riding a broken-down donkey cart, journeying due south. Having had this dream, sorrow and distress arise in his mind, and, on account of this sorrow and distress, his own illness grows even worse; and, his illness having worsened, his own family and relatives send a messenger to summon a physician. But the very messenger they send happens to be deformed and stunted in body, his faculties incomplete, his head covered in dust, wearing tattered and ruined clothes, riding in an old and broken-down cart, and he says to the physician: 'Come quickly, mount the cart at once.' The good physician then thinks to himself: 'Seeing this messenger now, his very appearance is inauspicious — I should know that this patient will be difficult to cure.' He thinks further: 'Though the messenger is inauspicious, let me divine the day, to see whether he can be cured or not — should it be the fourth, sixth, eighth, twelfth, or fourteenth day of the month, a day of this kind makes the illness difficult to cure as well.' He thinks further: 'Though the day is inauspicious, let me divine the star as well, to see whether he can be cured or not — should it be under Mars, Venus, the Pleiades, the star of Yama, the star of dampness, or the star of fullness, a time under stars of this kind makes the illness difficult to cure as well.' He thinks further: 'Though the star is inauspicious, let me observe the season as well — should it be autumn or winter, or the time of sunset, midnight, or moonset, I should know that this illness, too, is difficult to cure.' He then says further: 'Though every one of these signs is inauspicious, whether fixed or unfixed, I should still observe the patient himself — should he possess merit, he can still be cured in every case; and, lacking merit, what use would even auspicious signs be?' Having considered this, he sets out together with the messenger, and, along the road, thinks further: 'Should that patient possess the mark of a long life, he can be cured; possessing the mark of a short life, he cannot be cured.' Along the road ahead, he then sees two small children pulling at each other and quarreling, seizing each other's heads and pulling out each other's hair, striking one another with tiles, stones, blades, and staves; he sees someone holding fire, which extinguishes itself of its own accord; he sees, further, someone felling trees, or someone dragging a hide along the road by hand, or something lost and abandoned lying upon the road, or someone holding an empty vessel, or a śramaṇa walking alone without any companion, and, further, tigers, wolves, vultures, and foxes. Having seen these things, he thinks further: 'Both the messenger who was sent and every sign seen along the road are entirely inauspicious — I should know that this patient will certainly be difficult to cure.' He thinks further: 'Should I fail to go to him, I would not be a good physician at all; and yet, should I go to him, he cannot, in fact, be saved and cured.' He thinks further still: 'Though every one of these signs is inauspicious, let me set this aside for now, and go on to where the patient is.' Having considered this, he continues along the road, and hears, further, sounds such as these: of loss, of death, of collapse, of breaking, of stripping away, of falling, of burning, of not-coming, of being incurable, of being beyond rescue. He hears, further, from the south, the cries of birds in flight — the cries of crows, vultures, and shrikes, and of dogs, rats, foxes, hares, and pigs — and, hearing these sounds, thinks further: 'I should know that this patient will indeed be difficult to cure.'

"He then enters the patient's own house, and sees that the patient shivers repeatedly with cold and burns repeatedly with fever, his bones and joints aching, his eyes red and streaming with tears, his ears ringing so loudly they can be heard outside, his throat swollen and painful, his tongue cracked and split, his complexion utterly black, his head too heavy to hold up, his body withered and without any sweat, his urine and stool blocked and unable to pass, his body suddenly grown swollen and bloated, an abnormal, flushed red, his voice uneven, now coarse, now faint, his whole body mottled with strange patches of blue and yellow, his belly swollen and distended, his speech incoherent. The physician, seeing this, asks the attendant: 'What has this patient's own state of mind been like recently?' The attendant answers: 'Great master, this man originally revered and trusted the Three Jewels and the gods, but now this has changed entirely, and his reverence and trust have died away. He was originally fond of giving generously, but is now stingy and miserly; he originally ate little, but now eats to excess; he was originally coarse and evil by nature, but is now gentle and agreeable; he was originally loving, filial, and reverent toward his parents, but now holds no reverence for them at all.' Having heard this, the physician draws near and smells the patient, detecting the scent of blue lotus, aloeswood, camphor, tagara, tamāla leaf, saffron, and sandalwood — or, alternately, the stench of roasted flesh, grape wine, burnt sinew and bone, fish, and excrement. Having discerned these scents, he then draws near and touches the body, finding it soft and fine, like silk floss or kapok blossom — or, alternately, hard as stone, cold as ice, hot as fire, or rough as sand. The good physician, having observed every one of these various signs, knows for certain, beyond any doubt, that the patient must die — and yet he does not declare outright that this man will die, but says to the attendant: 'I have urgent business of my own just now; I shall come again tomorrow. In the meantime, give him whatever he needs, freely, without restriction.' And he returns home. The next day, when the messenger arrives again, he says to the messenger once more: 'My own affairs are not yet finished, and I have not yet compounded the medicine.' A person of wisdom should know that a patient of this kind must, without any doubt, die.

"Great king, the World-Honored One is exactly the same: toward the icchantika, he knows well the man's own faculties, and expounds the Dharma for him all the same. Why is this? Should he fail to expound it, every ordinary being would say that the Tathāgata is without great compassion — and one who possesses compassion is named 'the one who knows all'; were he without compassion, how could he be called the one who knows all? It is for this very reason that the Tathāgata expounds the Dharma for the icchantika. Great king, the World-Honored One, seeing every ill being, forever bestows the medicine of the Dharma; should the patient fail to take it, this is no fault of the Tathāgata's at all. Great king, the icchantika, too, is of two distinct kinds: one who is able to attain a wholesome root in the present life, and one who attains it only in a life to come. The Tathāgata knows well which among the icchantika are able to attain a wholesome root in the present life, and expounds the Dharma for them accordingly; and, for those who attain it only in a future life, he expounds the Dharma for them as well, for, though it brings no benefit now, it becomes the very cause of a future benefit. It is for this very reason that the Tathāgata expounds the essentials of the Dharma for the icchantika. The icchantika, further, is of two kinds: one of sharp faculties, and one of middling faculties. A person of sharp faculties is able to attain a wholesome root in the present life itself, while a person of middling faculties attains it only in a life to come — every buddha, every world-honored one, never expounds the Dharma in vain. Great king, it is like a person of pure conduct who has fallen into a latrine pit; a good and wise friend, seeing him, takes pity on him, and draws near at once, seizing him by the hair and pulling him out. Every buddha, every tathāgata, is exactly the same: seeing beings fallen among the three evil destinies, he saves and rescues them through skillful means, causing them to escape — it is for this very reason that the Tathāgata expounds the Dharma for the icchantika."

The king said to Jīvaka: "Should the Tathāgata truly be as you say, let us first select a favorable day and an auspicious star, and only then go to him." Jīvaka said to the king: "Great king, in the Tathāgata's own Dharma, there is no such thing as selecting a favorable day or auspicious star. Great king, it is like a gravely ill person, who does not concern himself with the day, the season, or what is auspicious or inauspicious at all, but seeks only a good physician. The king's own illness is now grave — in seeking the Buddha, this good physician, he should not select any favorable time or fine day at all. Great king, it is like a fire of sandalwood and a fire of eraṇḍa wood — both burn in exactly the same way, with no difference between them at all; an auspicious day and an inauspicious day are exactly the same. Should you arrive at where the Buddha is, your crime shall be extinguished in either case — I beg the great king to hasten there this very day." At that time, the great king summoned a minister named Auspicious, and said to him: "Great minister, you should know that I now wish to go to where the Buddha, the World-Honored One, is — prepare at once everything needed for making offerings." The minister said: "Great king, excellent, excellent! Everything needed for these offerings is already at hand." King Ajātaśatru, together with his own queen, made ready twelve thousand chariots and fifty thousand fine, strong elephants, each elephant bearing three people upon it, laden with every kind of banner, canopy, flower, incense, musical instrument, and offering, everything fully provided; his mounted escort numbered a hundred and eighty thousand, and the people of the whole kingdom of Magadha who followed after the king numbered, in full, five hundred and eighty thousand.

At that time, the whole great assembly at the city of Kuśinagara, filling twelve leagues, saw from afar King Ajātaśatru and his own retinue coming along the road. At that time, the Buddha said to the great assembly: "Among the near causes and conditions for unsurpassed, complete awakening, there is nothing that comes before a good and wise friend. Why is this? Had King Ajātaśatru failed to follow Jīvaka's own words, on the seventh day of next month he would most certainly have died and fallen into the Avīci hell — it is for this very reason that no near cause surpasses a good and wise friend." King Ajātaśatru, further along the road, heard that King Virūḍhaka of Śrāvastī had boarded a ship, put out to sea, and died in a fire, and that the monk Kokālika had sunk bodily into the earth and gone straight to the Avīci hell, and that Sunakṣatra, though he had committed every kind of evil, had come to where the Buddha was and had every one of his crimes extinguished. Hearing these two accounts, he said to Jīvaka: "Though I have now heard these two accounts, I still cannot be entirely certain which awaits me. Come, Jīvaka — I wish to ride together with you upon a single elephant; should I be about to fall into the Avīci hell, I hope you will seize and hold onto me, and not let me fall. Why is this? I once heard that one who has attained the path does not fall into hell." At that time, the Buddha said to the great assembly: "King Ajātaśatru still harbors a mind of doubt — I shall now make his mind resolute for him." At that time, within the assembly, there was a bodhisattva named Sarvadhara, who said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, as the Buddha has said before, every single dharma is without any fixed mark at all — form is without any fixed mark, and so on, up through: nirvāṇa, too, is without any fixed mark. How, then, can the Tathāgata now say that he shall make Ajātaśatru's mind resolute?" The Buddha said: "Excellent, excellent, good son! I shall now most certainly make King Ajātaśatru's mind resolute. Why is this? Should the king's own mind of doubt be capable of being broken through, you should know that every dharma is, indeed, without any fixed mark at all — it is for this very reason that I make King Ajātaśatru's mind resolute, and you should know that this very mind is, itself, without any fixed nature. Good son, were that king's mind fixed and determinate, how, then, could his own transgression be broken through at all? It is precisely because it has no fixed mark that his crime can be broken through — it is for this very reason that I make King Ajātaśatru's mind resolute."

At that time, the great king arrived among the twin sāla trees, coming before the Buddha, and, looking up, beheld the Tathāgata's thirty-two marks and eighty subsidiary signs, like a mountain of subtle and wondrous true gold. At that time, the World-Honored One, in one of his eight kinds of voice, called out: "Great king." Ajātaśatru looked about him to the left and right: "Who, within this great assembly, is the great king? I myself am guilty of transgression, and possess no merit at all — the Tathāgata could not possibly be addressing me as 'great king.'" At that time, the Tathāgata called out to him once more: "Great King Ajātaśatru." Hearing this, the king felt great joy in his heart, and said: "That the Tathāgata should today turn his attention to me and address me by name — this truly shows that the Tathāgata's own great compassion and pity extends equally to every being, without any distinction at all." He said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, my own mind of doubt is now entirely gone, without the slightest remainder — I know for certain that the Tathāgata is truly the unsurpassed teacher of every being." At that time, the bodhisattva Kāśyapa said to the bodhisattva Sarvadhara: "The Tathāgata has already made King Ajātaśatru's own mind resolute." At that time, King Ajātaśatru said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, were I now able to sit, rise, and take food together with Brahmā or with Śakra, lord of the gods, I would still feel no such joy as this — but, having received the Tathāgata's own single word, turning his attention to me by name, I feel the deepest joy and delight." At that time, King Ajātaśatru at once made offering with the banners, canopies, incense, flowers, and music he had brought, bowed before the Buddha's feet, circled him three times to the right, and, having finished paying his respects, withdrew to sit to one side.

At that time, the Buddha said to King Ajātaśatru: "Great king, I shall now expound for you the essentials of the true Dharma — attend with a single mind, and listen closely, listen closely! An ordinary being should forever fix his mind upon observing his own body, through twenty matters: first, that, so-called, within this very body of mine, there is emptiness, with nothing free of outflow at all; second, that it is without any wholesome root whatsoever; third, that I have not yet tamed and subdued this very birth-and-death of mine; fourth, that I have fallen into a deep pit, with nowhere at all free of fear; fifth, by what skillful means might I attain the sight of buddha-nature; sixth, how might I cultivate concentration so as to attain the sight of buddha-nature; seventh, that birth-and-death is forever suffering, impermanence, non-self, and impurity; eighth, that the difficulty of the eight difficulties is hard indeed to escape; ninth, that I am forever pursued by my own enemy; tenth, that there is not a single dharma able to block off any of the realms of existence; eleventh, that I have not yet attained liberation from the three evil destinies; twelfth, that I am fully endowed with every kind of evil, wrong view; thirteenth, that I have not yet built the ford by which to cross beyond the five gravest offenses; fourteenth, that birth-and-death is without limit, its very boundary not yet attained; fifteenth, that, were no action performed, no fruit at all would be received; sixteenth, that there is no such thing as one person acting and another receiving the fruit of it; seventeenth, that, were no cause of happiness performed, there would, in the end, be no fruit of happiness at all; eighteenth, that, should any action be performed, its fruit is never, in the end, lost; nineteenth, that one is born through the cause of ignorance, and dies through this same cause as well; and twentieth, that, in the past, future, and present, one forever behaves with heedlessness. Great king, an ordinary being should forever make these twenty kinds of observation, exactly as given, upon this very body. Having made these observations, he no longer takes pleasure in birth-and-death, and, no longer taking pleasure in birth-and-death, he attains right contemplation. He then observes, in turn, the mark of the mind's own arising, the mark of its abiding, and the mark of its ceasing; and, having observed in turn the mark of the mind's arising, abiding, and ceasing, he observes concentration, wisdom, diligence, and moral discipline in exactly the same way. Having observed arising, abiding, and ceasing, and having come to know the mark of the mind, and, further, the mark of moral discipline, he never, in the end, commits any evil at all, and is free of the fear of death and the fear of the three evil destinies. Should he fail to fix his mind and observe these twenty matters in this way, his mind becomes heedless, and there is no evil at all that he will not commit."

Ajātaśatru said: "As I understand the meaning of what the Buddha has taught, I, from the past until now, never once made these twenty observations, and it was for this very reason that I committed every kind of evil — and, having committed every kind of evil, I now have the fear of death and the fear of the three evil destinies. World-Honored One, I myself invited this disaster, committing this very grave evil, wrongfully turning against my innocent father, the king, and having him killed. Whether or not I make these twenty observations now, I must certainly, in the end, fall into the Avīci hell." The Buddha said to the great king: "Every single dharma's own nature and mark is impermanent, without any fixed or determinate quality at all — how, then, can the king say that he must certainly, in the end, fall into the Avīci hell?" King Ajātaśatru said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, should every dharma be without any fixed mark, then my own crime of killing should likewise be without any fixed mark; but should this killing be fixed and determinate, then not every dharma at all is without a fixed mark." The Buddha said: "Great king, excellent, excellent! Every buddha, every world-honored one, teaches that every dharma is, indeed, without any fixed mark at all, and the king is further able to know that this killing, too, is without any fixed mark — you should therefore know that this killing has no fixed mark at all. Great king, as you yourself have said, that your innocent father, the king, was wrongfully turned against and killed — but who, exactly, is this 'father'? It is only with regard to the five aggregates of a being conventionally so named that the false notion of 'father' arises at all. Among the twelve sense-fields and eighteen elements, which one, exactly, is this 'father'? Should form be the father, the four other aggregates should not be; and should these four be the father, form, too, should not be. Should you say that form combined with what is not form together constitute the father, this could not possibly be so. Why is this? Because form and what is not form, by their very natures, admit of no combination at all. Great king, it is only with regard to this aggregate of form that ordinary beings falsely give rise to the notion of 'father' — and yet this very aggregate of form, too, cannot be harmed at all. Why is this? Form is of ten kinds, and, among these ten kinds, only a single kind of form itself can be seen, grasped, weighed, measured, drawn, and bound. Though it can be seen and bound, its own nature does not abide even for a moment, and, because it does not abide, it cannot, in truth, be seen, cannot be grasped, cannot be weighed or measured, and cannot be drawn or bound at all. Since the mark of form is exactly this, how, then, could it possibly be killed? Should form be the father, capable of being killed and harmed, and thereby incurring the fruit of a crime, then the remaining nine kinds of form should not be so; and, should these nine not be so, then, indeed, there should be no crime at all. Great king, form is of three kinds: past, future, and present. What is past and what is present cannot be harmed at all. Why is this? Because the past is already past, and the present perishes, thought after thought; it is only the blocking off of the future that is named 'killing.' Since this single aggregate of form is, in this way, in one sense capable of being killed and, in another sense, incapable of being killed — sometimes killed, sometimes not — form itself is therefore without any fixed nature at all. And, should form be without fixed nature, killing, too, is without fixed nature; and, killing being without fixed nature, its fruit, too, is without fixed nature. How, then, can it be said that you must certainly, in the end, fall into hell?"

"Great king, the crimes that every being commits are, in all, of two kinds: light, and grave. Should it be committed by mind and speech alone, it is named light; should it be committed by body, speech, and mind together, it is named grave. Great king, when one merely thinks it in the mind and speaks it aloud, without the body itself acting, the fruit received is light. Great king, on that former day, your own mouth did not order him killed — you said only to cut off his feet. Great king, should you have ordered your own attendant minister to stand and behead the king outright, and he sat there and beheaded him, this would still not incur any crime — how much less, then, should any crime be incurred when you gave no such order at all? Should the king truly incur a crime here, then every buddha, every world-honored one, should incur a crime as well. Why is this? Your own father, the former king Bimbisāra, forever planted every kind of wholesome root under every buddha, and it was for this very reason that he came to occupy the throne in the first place. Had every buddha refused to accept his offerings, he would never have become king at all; and, had he never become king, you would never have been able to bring harm upon him for the sake of the kingdom. Should you incur a crime for killing your own father, then we buddhas, too, should incur a crime in just the same way. And should every buddha, every world-honored one, be free of any crime in this, how, then, could you alone incur one? Great king, Bimbisāra, in ages past, once harbored an evil mind: wandering Mount Vipula in pursuit of deer, he searched the whole wilderness and found nothing at all, until he came upon a single seer fully endowed with the five supernormal powers. Seeing him, an angry, evil thought at once arose in him: 'The very reason I have found nothing on this hunt is because of this very man' — and he drove the seer away, and then ordered his own attendants to kill him. That seer, as he was dying, gave rise to an angry, evil thought of his own, and, his supernormal powers thereby lost, made this vow: 'I am, in truth, entirely innocent, and yet you have wrongfully had me killed through your own mind and speech — in a life to come, I, too, shall do just the same, and shall likewise harm you through my own mind and speech.' The king, hearing this, at once gave rise to a remorseful mind, and made offering to the seer's own corpse. This king, having done as he did, still received only a light retribution, and did not fall into hell — how much less, then, should the present king, who has done nothing of the sort, receive his fruit in hell? Your former father, the king, brought this about himself, and received its fruit himself in turn — how, then, could the present king incur any crime of killing at all? As for what the king has said, that his father, the king, was innocent — great king, how can you say he was without fault? Where there is a crime, there is a fruit of that crime; and where there is no evil act, there is no fruit of any crime. Should your own father, the king, have truly been entirely without fault, how, then, could he have received such a fruit? Bimbisāra, in this very present life, received both a wholesome fruit and an unwholesome one — your own former father, the king, is therefore likewise without any fixed nature, and, being without fixed nature, this killing, too, is without fixed nature; and, this killing being without fixed nature, how can it be said that you must certainly, in the end, fall into hell?"

"Great king, the delusion of beings is, in all, of four kinds: the delusion of craving, the delusion of drugs, the delusion of incantation, and the delusion of one's own past karmic conditions. Great king, among my own disciples there are those afflicted with these four kinds of delusion, and, though they commit a great deal of evil, I never, in the end, record such a person as having broken the precepts. What such a person does does not lead him to the three evil destinies, and, should his own mind return to him, he is likewise not said to have transgressed. The king originally coveted the kingdom, and turned against his own father, the king, and had him killed — this was done through a mind deluded by craving; how, then, could this incur a crime? Great king, it is like a man drunk on wine, who turns against his own mother and kills her; once he has sobered and awakened, remorse arises in his mind — you should know that a deed of this kind, too, incurs no fruit at all. The king's own craving is now like this very drunkenness — it was not done with his own original mind; and, if it was not done with his own original mind, how could it incur any crime at all? Great king, it is like an illusionist, who, at the crossing of four roads, conjures every kind of man, woman, elephant, horse, ornament, and garment — the foolish take these for real, while the wise know they are not truly real at all. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real. Great king, it is like an echo among the mountains — the foolish take it for a real sound, while the wise know it is not real. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real. Great king, it is like a man with a grudge who comes, feigning intimacy and friendship — the foolish take him for a real friend, while the wise, seeing clearly, know it is a hollow deception. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real. Great king, it is like a man holding a mirror, who sees his own face reflected in it — the foolish take this reflection for a real face, while the wise, seeing clearly, know it is not real. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real. Great king, it is like a mirage in the heat — the foolish take it for water, while the wise, seeing clearly, know it is not water at all. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real. Great king, it is like a gandharva's city in the sky — the foolish take it for something real, while the wise, seeing clearly, know it is not real. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real. Great king, it is like a man in a dream, experiencing the pleasures of the five desires — the foolish take this for something real, while the wise, seeing clearly, know it is not real. Killing is exactly the same: ordinary beings take it to be real, while every buddha, every world-honored one, knows it is not truly real."

"Great king, I fully understand the method of killing, the act of killing, the one who kills, the fruit of killing, and liberation from it, and yet, in this, there is no crime at all. Though the king merely knows of killing, how could this incur any crime? Great king, it is like a man who oversees and manages wine as his own trade — should he not drink of it, he does not become drunk; and, though he knows fire well, he is not burned by it. The king is exactly the same: though he knows of this killing, how could this incur any crime? Great king, there are beings who, at sunrise, commit every kind of crime, and who, at moonrise, go about robbing and stealing — and, should neither sun nor moon appear, they would commit no crime at all; yet, though it is on account of the sun and moon that they are enabled to commit their crimes, the sun and moon themselves, in truth, incur no crime at all. Killing is exactly the same: though it occurred on account of the king, the king himself, in truth, incurs no crime at all. Great king, it is like how, within your own palace, you forever order sheep to be butchered, and your own mind, from the start, feels no fear at all in this — why, then, toward your own father, should you alone give rise to a fearful mind? Though there is, indeed, a distinction of rank between a human being and an animal, both alike hold their own life precious and fear death, with no difference between them at all in this. Why, then, does your mind feel so light and unafraid toward a sheep, and yet give rise to such heavy grief and suffering toward your own father, the former king? Great king, the people of this world are themselves slaves and servants to their own craving, unable to be their own masters — driven by craving, they carry out killing, and, should there be any fruit of this at all, it is craving itself that bears the crime. The king himself was not his own master in this — what fault, then, could there possibly be? Great king, it is like nirvāṇa itself, which is neither existent nor non-existent, and yet is also existent. Killing is exactly the same: though it is neither existent nor non-existent, it is also existent. For a person with shame and remorse, it is non-existent; for one without shame or remorse, it is not non-existent. For one who receives its fruit, it is named existent; for a person holding the view of emptiness, it is non-existent; for a person holding the view of existence, it is not non-existent, and for one who holds this very view of existence, it, too, is named existent. Why is this? Because one who holds the view of existence receives its fruit, while one without this view receives no fruit at all. For a person holding the view of eternalism, it is non-existent; for one without the view of eternalism, it is not non-existent. For one who holds an eternalist view of eternalism itself, it cannot be non-existent — why is this? Because one who holds an eternalist view of eternalism itself possesses the fruit of an evil act, and it is for this very reason that such a person's view cannot be called non-existent. It is for this very reason that, though it is neither existent nor non-existent, it is also existent."

"Great king, a being is itself named for its own in-breath and out-breath, and the cutting off of this in-breath and out-breath is itself what is named 'killing' — every buddha, too, following worldly convention, speaks of this as killing. Great king, form is impermanent, and the causes and conditions of form, too, are impermanent — arising from an impermanent cause, how could form itself be permanent? And so on, up through: consciousness is impermanent, and the causes and conditions of consciousness, too, are impermanent — arising from an impermanent cause, how could consciousness itself be permanent? Because it is impermanent, it is suffering; because it is suffering, it is empty; because it is empty, it is without self. If this is impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and non-self, then what, exactly, is being killed at all? One who kills impermanence attains permanent nirvāṇa; one who kills suffering attains bliss; one who kills emptiness attains the real; and one who kills non-self attains the true self. Great king, should you kill impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and non-self, you would then be exactly the same as I am — I, too, kill impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and non-self, and do not fall into hell. Why, then, would you fall into hell?" At that time, King Ajātaśatru, contemplating form and, further, consciousness, exactly as the Buddha had taught, and having made this contemplation, said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, I now know, for the first time, that form is impermanent, and, further, that consciousness is impermanent — had I originally been able to know this, I would never have committed this crime at all. World-Honored One, I once heard that every buddha, every world-honored one, forever acts as a father and mother to every being; though I had heard these words, I was not yet certain of them, but now I know this for certain. World-Honored One, I have also heard that Mount Sumeru, king of mountains, is made of four precious substances — gold, silver, lapis lazuli, and crystal — and that, should any bird gather at any one of its four sides, it takes on that very color; though I had heard this said, I was not yet certain of it either. Now that I have come before the Buddha, this very Mount Sumeru, I have taken on his own color — and, having taken on this color, I now know that every dharma is impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and non-self. World-Honored One, in this world, I have seen the seed of the eraṇḍa tree give rise only to another eraṇḍa tree, and have never seen it give rise to a sandalwood tree — but now, for the first time, I see a sandalwood tree growing from an eraṇḍa seed: the eraṇḍa seed is this very body of mine, and the sandalwood tree is this very mind of mine, once rootless, now possessed of faith. 'Rootless' means that, before, I did not know to revere the Tathāgata, and did not believe in the Dharma or the Saṅgha — this is what is meant by 'rootless.' World-Honored One, had I not encountered the Tathāgata, the World-Honored One, I would have undergone immeasurable suffering in the great hells for immeasurable, incalculable kalpas; but now that I have seen the Buddha, may the very merit gained through this seeing of the Buddha destroy every evil mind of affliction possessed by every being." The Buddha said: "Great king, excellent, excellent! I now know that you shall most certainly be able to destroy the evil minds of every being." "World-Honored One, should I truly be able to destroy the evil minds of every being, then, though I remain forever in the Avīci hell, undergoing great suffering and anguish for the sake of every being throughout immeasurable kalpas, I would not count this as suffering at all." At that time, immeasurable people throughout the kingdom of Magadha all together gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening, and, on account of these immeasurable people giving rise to this great mind, every one of King Ajātaśatru's own grave crimes grew light at once. The king himself, together with his queen and every woman of his own harem, likewise all together gave rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening.

At that time, King Ajātaśatru said to Jīvaka: "Jīvaka, though I have not yet died, I have already attained a heavenly body; I have cast off a short life and attained a long life; I have cast off an impermanent body and attained a permanent body — for, in causing every being to give rise to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening, this is itself a heavenly body, a long life, and a permanent body; this is itself becoming a disciple of every buddha." Having said this, he then made offering to the Buddha with every kind of jeweled banner, flag, canopy, incense, flower, garland, and subtle, wondrous music, and further praised him in this verse:

At that time, the World-Honored One praised King Ajātaśatru: "Excellent, excellent! Should any person be able to give rise to the bodhi-mind, know that this very person becomes an adornment to the great assembly of every buddha. Great king, you yourself, in ages past, already gave rise, for the very first time, to the mind of unsurpassed, complete awakening, under the buddha Vipaśyin — and, from that time until my own appearance in this world, throughout the entire interval between, you have never once fallen into hell to undergo suffering there. The great king should know that the bodhi-mind bears a fruit of exactly this immeasurable kind. Great king, from this day forward, you should forever diligently cultivate the bodhi-mind. Why is this? Because, through this very cause and condition, immeasurable evil shall be extinguished." At that time, King Ajātaśatru, together with the whole assembled people of the kingdom of Magadha, rose from their seats, circled the Buddha three times, and, taking their leave, returned to the palace.

The chapter on heavenly conduct is as told in the Avataṃsaka.

"Good son, what is meant by infant-like conduct? Good son, one who is unable to rise, to abide, to come, to go, or to speak is named an infant. The Tathāgata is exactly the same: 'unable to rise' means that the Tathāgata never, in the end, gives rise to the mark of any dharma at all; 'unable to abide' means that the Tathāgata clings to no dharma whatsoever; 'unable to come' means that the Tathāgata's own bodily conduct is never stirred or moved; 'unable to go' means that the Tathāgata has already arrived at this great nirvāṇa; and 'unable to speak' means that, though the Tathāgata expounds every dharma for the sake of every being, he has, in truth, nothing at all that he speaks. Why is this? Whatever is spoken is named a conditioned dharma; the Tathāgata, the World-Honored One, is not conditioned at all — it is for this very reason that he has nothing that he speaks. And, further, 'without speech' is like an infant, whose speech is not yet fully formed — though he does speak after a fashion, in truth he has no speech at all. The Tathāgata is exactly the same: what is 'not yet fully formed' in his speech is itself every buddha's own secret utterance — though something is indeed spoken, beings do not understand it, and it is for this reason that it is named 'without speech.' And, further, an infant is one for whom things are not yet distinguished as one from another, and who does not yet know correct speech — and yet, though things are not yet distinguished and correct speech not yet known, it is not that he fails, on this very account, to come to recognize things. The Tathāgata is exactly the same: every being differs in its own class and kind, and what is said to each differs accordingly — the Tathāgata, through skillful means, speaks in accordance with each, and causes every one of them, through this very means, to attain understanding. And, further, an infant is able to speak great syllables. The Tathāgata is exactly the same, speaking a great syllable, namely, 'bhava' — 'va' means conditioned, and 'bha' means unconditioned; this is what is meant by 'infant.' 'Va' means impermanence, and 'bha' means permanence; the Tathāgata speaks of permanence, and beings, hearing this, on account of this very permanent dharma, sever impermanence — this is what is meant by infant-like conduct. And, further, an infant does not know suffering and pleasure, day and night, or father and mother. The bodhisattva-mahāsattva is exactly the same: for the sake of beings, he does not distinguish suffering from pleasure, nor hold any notion of day and night; his mind is equal and impartial toward every being, and so he holds no mark at all of father, mother, kin, or stranger. And, further, an infant is unable to carry out any great or small undertaking. The bodhisattva-mahāsattva is exactly the same: the bodhisattva does not carry out the deeds that produce birth-and-death — this is what is meant by 'not carrying out.' 'Great undertakings' means the five gravest offenses; the bodhisattva-mahāsattva never, in the end, commits the grave crime of any of the five gravest offenses. 'Small undertakings' means the mind of the two lesser vehicles; the bodhisattva never, in the end, turns back from the bodhi-mind to take up the vehicle of the śrāvaka or the pratyekabuddha."

"And, further, as for infant-like conduct: it is like how, when an infant cries, his parents take a willow tree's own yellow leaf and say to him: 'Do not cry, do not cry — I shall give you gold.' The infant, seeing this, gives rise to the notion of real gold, and at once stops crying — and yet this very willow leaf is, in truth, not gold at all. It is exactly the same with a wooden ox, a wooden horse, a wooden boy, or a wooden girl: the infant, seeing these, likewise gives rise to the notion of a boy or a girl, and at once stops crying — though, in truth, these are no boy or girl at all. It is on account of giving rise to just such a notion of a boy or a girl that this is named 'infant.' The Tathāgata is exactly the same: should any being wish to commit every kind of evil, the Tathāgata teaches him of the permanence, bliss, self, and purity of the Trāyastriṃśa heaven, its beings upright and free to do as they please, receiving the pleasures of the five desires within its wondrous palaces, every one of the six senses meeting with nothing but pleasure itself. Beings, hearing that such pleasure exists, give rise in their minds to a craving for it, and, on account of this, cease from evil, and diligently perform the wholesome deeds that lead to the Trāyastriṃśa heaven. Yet, in truth, this is nothing but birth-and-death — impermanence, without pleasure, without self, without purity — and it is only for the sake of saving beings, through skillful means, that this is spoken of as permanence, bliss, self, and purity. And, further, as for the infant: should any being, at some time, come to loathe birth-and-death, the Tathāgata then teaches him of the two lesser vehicles — and yet these two lesser vehicles, in truth, have no reality of their own at all; it is only through these two vehicles that one comes to know the fault of birth-and-death, and to see the bliss of nirvāṇa. Through this very seeing, one is then able to know for himself what is severed and what is not yet severed, what is true and what is not yet true, what is cultivated and what is not yet cultivated, and what is attained and what is not yet attained.

"Good son, just as that infant gives rise to the notion of gold where there is, in truth, no gold at all, the Tathāgata is exactly the same: he teaches purity where there is, in truth, impurity — and yet, because the Tathāgata has already attained the ultimate meaning, there is no falsehood at all in this. Just as that infant gives rise to the notion of an ox or a horse where there is neither ox nor horse at all — should any being give rise to the notion of a true path where there is, in truth, no path at all, the Tathāgata, too, speaks of what is not the path as the path; though there is, in truth, no path at all within what is not the path, it is because it is able to give rise, through a subtle cause and condition, to the true path itself that the Tathāgata speaks of what is not the path as the path. Just as that infant gives rise to the notion of a boy or a girl at a wooden boy or girl, the Tathāgata is exactly the same: knowing there is no being at all, he yet speaks of the notion of a being, though there is, in truth, no mark of any being whatsoever. Should the Buddha, the Tathāgata, teach that there is no being at all, every being would then fall into wrong view — it is for this very reason that the Tathāgata teaches that beings exist. One who, among beings, holds fast to the very notion of a being is thereby unable to break through the mark of any being at all; but one who, among beings, breaks through the mark of a being is thereby able to attain this great nirvāṇa — and it is on account of attaining this great nirvāṇa that he ceases his own weeping. This is what is meant by infant-like conduct. Good son, should any man or woman uphold, recite, copy out, and expound these five practices, know that this very person shall most certainly come to attain these same five practices himself." The bodhisattva Kāśyapa said to the Buddha: "World-Honored One, as I understand the meaning of what the Buddha has taught, I, too, shall most certainly attain these five practices." The Buddha said: "Good son, it is not you alone who shall attain these five practices in this way — the nine hundred and thirty thousand people gathered in this very assembly today shall attain these same five practices, exactly as you shall."