A Life Spared, and a Mother Still Confined
The king's own fury turns, without warning, into fear — not remorse yet, but a sudden terror that the two ministers who just defied him openly might now abandon him for his father instead. Jīvaka's answer is not comfort but a condition, stated flatly: loyalty, in exchange for his mother's life. It works — but only partially.
Fear, a Condition, and a Reprieve
五、從時阿闍世驚怖下，至汝不為我耶已來，正明世王生怖。此明闍世既見二臣諫辭麁切，又覩按劍而去，恐臣背我，向彼父王，更生異計。致使情地不安，故稱惶懼。彼既捨我，不知為誰。心疑不決，遂即口問審之。故云耆婆汝不為我也。言耆婆者，是王之弟也。古人云：家有衰禍，非親不救。汝既是我弟者，豈同月光也。
六、從耆婆白言下，至慎莫害母已來，明二臣重諫。此明耆婆實答大王，若欲得我等為相者，願勿害母也。此直諫竟。
七、從王聞此語下，至止不害母已來，正明闍王受諫放母殘命。此明世王既得耆婆諫已，心生悔恨，愧前所造即向二臣求哀乞命。因即放母脫於死難。手中之劍還歸本匣。
Fifth, from "at that time Ajātaśatru, terrified" down through "are you not on my side?" this makes plain the king's own sudden fear. This makes plain that Ajātaśatru, having seen the two ministers' remonstrance so blunt and urgent, and having witnessed them withdraw with their hands still upon their swords, feared that they might now turn against him, siding instead with his own father, and plotting some further scheme against him. This left him deeply unsettled in his own mind, hence it is said he was "terrified." Having, it seemed, already been abandoned by them, he no longer knew whom he could still trust. His mind, caught in this unresolved doubt, at once questioned Jīvaka directly, to be certain of him — hence it is said, "Jīvaka, are you not on my side?" As for "Jīvaka": he was the king's own younger brother. As the ancients said: "When a family faces ruin and calamity, none but a true kinsman will come to its aid." Since you are indeed my own brother, surely you cannot be the same as Candraprabha.
Sixth, from "Jīvaka addressed him" down through "take care not to harm your mother," this makes plain the two ministers' own renewed remonstrance. This makes plain that Jīvaka answered the great king honestly: should the king wish to keep us as his own ministers still, he must not harm his mother. This concludes their direct remonstrance.
Seventh, from "the king, hearing these words" down through "he stopped, and did not harm his mother," this makes plain that Ajātaśatru, accepting their remonstrance, spared his mother's remaining life. This makes plain that the king, having received Jīvaka's own remonstrance, gave rise to remorse and regret in his own heart, and, ashamed of what he had already done, begged the two ministers' own forgiveness, pleading for his mother's life. He thereupon released his mother from this deadly danger, and the sword in his own hand returned to its sheath.
Shandao's own account of what actually changes Ajātaśatru's mind is notably unsentimental: not his mother's own submission in Part 14, not any independent stirring of conscience, but a sudden, self-interested fear of political abandonment. "Having, it seemed, already been abandoned by them, he no longer knew whom he could still trust" — the very ministers who just risked their lives to stop him are, in this moment, valued not for their argument but for their continued loyalty, which the king suddenly cannot afford to lose. Jīvaka's own reply refuses to soften this into anything warmer: not reassurance, but a plain transaction — our service, in exchange for your mother's life. Shandao lets the king's own remorse arrive only after this condition is named, not before it, leaving the reader to judge for themselves how much of what follows is genuine change of heart and how much is simply a frightened man doing what he must to keep his own throne secured.
A Sword Sheathed, But a Mother Still Confined
八、從勅語內官下，至不令復出已來，明其世王餘瞋禁母。此明世王雖受臣諫放母，猶有餘瞋不令在外。勅語內官閉置深宮，更莫令出與父王相見。
上來雖有八句不同。廣明禁母緣竟。
Eighth, from "he commanded the palace officials" down through "never again to let her out," this makes plain that the king, though sparing his mother, still confined her out of lingering rage. This makes plain that the king, though he had accepted his ministers' remonstrance and spared his mother's life, still harbored a lingering rage, and would not allow her to remain at liberty. He commanded the palace officials to confine her deep within the palace, never again to let her out to see the king, his father.
Though the above has unfolded across eight distinct points, this concludes the full explanation of the condition of the mother's imprisonment.
Shandao closes this entire section on a deliberately incomplete resolution: a life is spared, but nothing else is actually forgiven. The king's own "lingering rage" (餘瞋) is named explicitly, distinguishing this outcome sharply from any genuine reconciliation — Vaidehī survives the sword only to remain sealed away, permanently separated even from the husband she risked her own life to feed. This double confinement, both parents imprisoned by the same son for the same rebellion, now sets the stage precisely: two people with nothing left to do but wait, each cut off from everyone but their own private grief. It is exactly this state — confined, forgiven only halfway, with no possibility of appeal — that the next section of this fascicle turns to directly, as Vaidehī's own imprisonment becomes the occasion for something the entire narrative has been building toward from its very first line.
Part 16 Complete
This closes Part 16, and with it "the condition of the mother's imprisonment" in full — the third of Shandao's seven narrative sections. Part 17 turns to the fourth section, "the condition of weariness with suffering": Vaidehī, now alone and confined, given over entirely to her own grief, and her prayer, directed toward Vulture Peak, that finally draws the Buddha's own attention to her.
Continue to Part 17 — A Queen's Grief, and a Prayer Toward Vulture Peak →