辟支佛因緣論

The story of how the Great Elder of Rājagṛha awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of how King Candrodaya of the country of Vārāṇasī awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of how the Great Emperor, King of the country of Kauśāmbī, awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of how the King of the country of Kauśāmbī awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of how King Senāpati of the country of Vārāṇasī awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of how the Youngest Son of a Cakravartin awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

Just as within a dense forest

One wishes to remove a great tree,

But the branches form an obstruction

And drawing it out can hardly be done;

The householder is like a forest tree,

And worldly affairs are like its branches and leaves.

Though one wishes to seek a way out,

The bondage will by no means let go.

In the pure abode within a secluded forest,

Contemplating this realm and cultivating this mind,

One is liberated from outer conditions,

And departs from places of fond attachment.

Cultivating solely the single practice,

Like the rhinoceros that has no second.

Master after master have transmitted it in succession,

And I have come to hear of this matter.

In times of old there was a Pratyekabuddha who, throughout the five past lives before the former Buddhas, often cultivated the wholesome teachings. Because he was attached to and delighted in the joys of dwelling at home with an Upāsikā, although he saw the Buddhas, he did not seek to go forth into homelessness. Even so, he was able to keep the precepts at home single-mindedly, never violating them, and his roots of goodness gradually increased.

In the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa he first went forth to study the Way, delighting in the dhūta practices, complete in the six kinds, and far removed from craving. When that man's life came to an end he was reborn in a heavenly palace. After his lifespan there was exhausted, he was born into the house of a Great Elder in the city of Rājagṛha.

The wealth of this Elder was immeasurably abundant, his storehouses and granaries were brimful, and each day he prospered yet more. After his father died, he amused himself at will, like Naḷakūbara, son of Vaiśravaṇa. Within this household he disported himself to his heart's content, and there were born to him children numbering about thirty.

The granaries increased day by day, and the men and women, wives and husbands, likewise grew ever more numerous. He was concerned only with making a living and forgot all about cultivation and study. Bound by the various outer conditions, he did not relinquish his family estate, and he often heard of deaths among those dear to him.

There was one household that met with a death and unemployment. The more he heard such unhappy tidings, the more he grieved and suffered in distress, as though a hundred arrows had been shot into his heart. He also heard of pleasant and lovable things.

In another man's house there were many precious goods, brought home in peace and safety. This son had begotten a son, that daughter had begotten a child of merit. From this he rejoiced; hearing of gain, his cares and joys harmonized together.

As though to create an occasion of joy, he mounted a carriage and together with friends went to a certain garden, strolling about until he came to view a certain grove of trees, where he saw a man felling a great tree whose branches and leaves were truly luxuriant. Though many elephants were employed, they could not uproot it. When a small tree was felled, it had no branches, and a single man alone could carry it out of the forest with no obstruction.

Having seen this, he reflected to himself and spoke these words: "I have a karmic affinity with this man," and forthwith he spoke a verse, saying:

I see the felling of a great tree,

Its branches and leaves are truly many.

The dense forest is like interlocking links,

So that it cannot be carried out.

The world is also just like this:

Men and women together with kinfolk,

Love and anger bind and fetter the mind,

And the affair of birth-and-death is like a forest

From which one cannot attain liberation.

The small tree has no branches,

And of the dense forest one has nothing to fear.

Contemplating that, I have awakened,

And severed and cut off the realm of love and affection.

In the dense forest of birth-and-death,

Spontaneously I attain liberation.

There upon that very spot he attained the fruition of a Pratyekabuddha, and that close friend then said: "The sun has gone down; let us return home." He replied to his friend: "You return home yourself; I shall turn toward home, and by reason of that cause I shall make a severance." His good friend asked again: "What is it you would sever?" He replied: "From of old I have been attached through craving to that house, and now I shall sever this karma of craving.

Because human beings are attached through love to their wives, children, and kinfolk, their sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons, with affection, arrogance, and pride—if one sees one's father, the words one hears never cease, fleeing and clinging to conditions. Through fondness for these matters, attachment of craving arises. I, with regard to my wife, children, and kinfolk, am also just like this; the mind of craving I have resolved to halt.

Of old, when I dwelt at home in trade, coming and going, I would speak to this one or that; either bidding them take this, or bidding them do that, or bidding them not do that. Such matters as these I now sever; relinquishing the pleasures of desire, I attain the joy of liberation. I have cut off the root of the tree of craving, closed up the various gates, and diminished the dark obstructions.

I make distinctions among my little children, am vexed at the household, and there is nothing else. Having done thus, how could I ever return home again?"

At that time the close friend returned home and conveyed those words to the children. When the men and women, great and small, had heard of this, they all came to look and see. When the kinfolk arrived, they then saw the father wearing the Dharma-robes of a Śramaṇa and flying up into the open sky.

The children said: "Why now do you grow weary of your kinfolk?" From within the open sky he then spoke the verse as above. Then he replied to his sons and daughters. After speaking the verse, he flew up into the open sky and went to the Snow Mountains to gather together with the other Pratyekabuddhas; when he returned he realized the Way in the garden, and casting off his body, he entered Nirvāṇa.

The kinfolk then built a stūpa and shrine. Because of this, some called it a stūpa, on account of the many sons. Generally, those who had complete roots of goodness, and those who had but slight conditions, were likewise thereby awakened.

The story of how King Candrodaya of the country of Vārāṇasī awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

Wealth, wife, children, and friends—

In birth-and-death amid anxious care.

In the secluded forest there is peace and liberation,

Like the rhinoceros with its single horn.

From the wholesome, passing through what was heard,

It was transmitted to my Master,

And I too heard it from my Master,

And now expound it here again.

In times of old there was a Pratyekabuddha who, in the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa, lived to eleven thousand years of age, cultivating the holy life, ever practicing patient endurance, with loving-kindness and compassion toward all sentient beings. Even the smallest precept he never violated, and when his life came to an end he was reborn in the heavens. After his time in the heavenly realm was fulfilled, he descended to be born in the country of Vārāṇasī, born within the royal palace.

Since the moon rose when he was born, he was named Candrodaya ("Moonrise"). Then gradually he grew up and was established as Crown Prince. When the king passed away, he succeeded to the royal throne, and using the wholesome power of his former lives, he ruled the country with the true Dharma.

He appointed the son of his Chief Minister to receive charge of a small country and took a wife for him. This son of the Chief Minister was peerlessly mighty, had many kinfolk, and was self-important and arrogant beyond measure. At that time the son of the King and the son of the Chief Minister married sisters and thus became kin.

Through this they grew intimate at banquets and feasts, and there was a scheming plot. He said to the Prince: "Truly your uncle has all too many brothers and kinfolk, and the people of the world commonly believe the words of women, so that in a single morning they might overthrow your royal father. Then those mothers, prone to flattery and slander, will themselves use these children to shift the throne of your father—and it will not come to you children at all." The arrogant king did not yet understand the scheme.

Now the royal throne is what is honored by all under heaven; it is a place of supreme bliss, no different from the heavenly realms. Of all the people of the world, none fail to believe in and submit to it. If because of being lord of the country one rules with the Dharma, then after one's life ends, one is sure to be reborn in the heavens.

It is just like savory morsels of meat, which all are like this. The royal throne too is likewise; there is none who does not covet it. Thereupon he spoke a verse, saying:

Just as when the water has not yet arrived,

In doubt one builds a bridge—

If the mighty waters come rushing in,

There can be no place left for doubt.

The royal throne is also like this:

The doubtful one should first be removed.

When you can grasp it in your own hand,

Then you can be at ease.

Brothers will straightway grow jealous;

To grow close afterward is not easy.

The Prince pondered and said:

If such a kinsman as this

Should wish to harm me,

It is like charcoal that already holds fire within.

At present there is no joy,

And in the life to come there will likewise be suffering.

At that time, when the Prince had fully carried out the matter above, he then went to report it to his royal father. The king, hearing the Prince's words, grew angry, and both his eyes turned red as copper. The king at that time then issued a command: "Be silent, and flee at once from this place!" Just at that moment the Prince heard that the son of the Chief Minister had arrived, and forthwith went out to welcome him in.

After they had met and exchanged words, he then returned to the king to report, saying: "The Prince is gravely ill." When the king heard this, he came to look, and saw the Prince severely ill and suffering miserably, his very life in peril. With the suffering and illness of the four great elements, having seen this, the king then reflected to himself: "Even this royal throne is itself a wretched thing, yet that old Chief Minister and his son have plotted, teaching my son to seek means of rebellion, wishing to commit an unrighteous deed.

Yet my royal throne—they shall not obtain it. My son now is sick and suffering, and all the people of the world likewise give rise to greed and jealousy. By this matter I clearly understand that the royal throne is itself a wretched thing.

Since it is so wretched, why not relinquish the royal throne to do wholesome deeds? It is this very royal throne that harms father and grandfather. And on account of brothers, it gives rise to deeds exceedingly evil.

Casting off all sense of shame, it can lead to wanton dissipation. For but a little joy, it brings about suffering in the life to come." Thereupon he spoke a verse, saying:

As a moth flies into the flame,

Or one craving water though blind—it is the same.

In greed for gain and loss,

Whether one acts thus or does not act,

Sinking into the water and the muddy mire,

One attains no place of peace and security.

Having reflected in this way,

The body practices pure deeds.

Clearly comprehending the mind that departs and withdraws,

He forthwith attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

There is also an account that says: This king, having seen his son and grown enraged, then returned to the palace. Then there was a king of a neighboring country who, on account of bandits, came to seek aid. When this king heard of the matter, he sought out soldiers and generals to go and aid that other king. When he arrived at that country, the two sides joined battle, slaughtering one another, until even women with child, as well as little children, were all slain. The king, seeing this, held that it was because of this very royal throne, and so he grew weary of it and spoke a verse, saying:

Coveting the country for a little joy,

He is sunk into the filthy mire.

The mind of anger grows ever greater,

Provoking war and giving rise to right-and-wrong disputes.

For greed of gain they slay one another,

And yet more do they slaughter one another.

Not seeking the matter of liberation,

It all comes to ruin in the royal throne.

As, amid a great burning fire,

The moth flies in to its death,

Habituated and wearied by the matter of life-and-death—

The place where delusion and confusion are wrought.

That joy will create karma;

In return, there is only suffering.

As upon the summit of yonder mountain,

There is a swarm of bees—

The foolish man, greedy for a little honey,

Does not understand where the suffering lies.

Reflecting thus to himself,

He forthwith attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

Then he said to his son: "Do not employ the words of evil men, nor go against my will. If you govern the country, you must follow the true Dharma. I now, together with this country, all belong to you.

I now wish to depart from this place." When the son and all the kinfolk of the Chief Minister heard the king speak these words, they all grieved and sorrowed, wept and shed tears, and with palms joined said to the king: "We know not, Great King, where you wish to go." At that time the royal father in his own body flew up into the open sky, and from where the sun stood above the mountain summit, he spoke the verse as above.

Wearing the robes of a Śramaṇa, he performed the eighteen kinds of spiritual transformations. When the people of the country saw this, there was none who did not rejoice. It is like one who keeps horses: if he sees them running astray, he must set them right again.

The wise too must likewise be so. Seeing others undergo suffering, their own minds are then made compliant and set aright.

The story of how the Great Emperor, King of the country of Kauśāmbī, awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

Father and mother, wife and children,

Food and clothing together with goods and wealth—

The wise one observes them deeply

And regards them as but a wayside inn.

Casting aside these cravings and desires,

He walks alone like the rhinoceros.

I of old, from my Teacher,

Received and heard of this matter.

From the time of the Buddha Kāśyapa he had become a Bhikṣu, of bright and penetrating wisdom, gentle and forbearing. Each day he often contemplated the dharmas, their true essential nature. That is, he contemplated the aggregates as suffering, empty, impermanent, and without self—like a plantain tree while yet small, like an illusion, like a dream, like water, like foam—and was well able to observe so as to cultivate his own mind.

When his life came to an end he was reborn in the heavens. When his lifespan in the heavenly realm was exhausted, he was born in the city of Kauśāmbī as the son of the king, named "Great Emperor." When this king passed away, he succeeded to the kingly estate and continued to be styled emperor. Like those former wholesome kings, he cultivated the precepts and observances and ruled the country with the true Dharma.

At that time there was within the city a certain Elder of immeasurable wealth who had a close and intimate relationship with King Great Emperor. That Great Elder fell ill in body. The king, hearing of the illness, came himself to visit.

Seeing the Elder's condition and his haggard countenance, the king's mind was unhappy, and he bowed his head in grief and sorrow. At that time that Elder, using an alms-bowl filled entirely with gold, offered it to the king. The king said to the Elder: "Your illness causes you great suffering, does it not?" The Elder replied: "I pray the king will strive to hear what I say:

My house is truly rich,

Like that of Vaiśravaṇa.

Loving words and possessions,

In many places I have friends.

Wife, children, and kinfolk,

Servants and underlings—

Of all these I am fully possessed,

Meeting with true wealth and nobility.

Yet now the time of death has come,

And not one of them is my friend."

The king then came to console him:

"These words are truly true.

Your children and kinsfolk,

Your possessions and your treasure-stores,

Together with that strength of yours,

Elephants, horses, and soldiers—

Though you have such as these,

Yet none can rescue you.

We, your kinsfolk,

Seeing you meet with suffering and calamity,

Forthwith have words of consolation;

Grief and sorrow make our tears flow.

And one whose life is about to end

Cannot be rescued or saved.

Only you yourself rely on yourself,

By reason of the merit done before."

The king, having seen the illness,

His mind became like those who practice dhyāna.

Deeply he awakened to suffering and calamity:

That sentient beings are bound to meet with it.

All those who are born

Are forthwith subject to sickness.

Sickness ever harms human beings,

With no mind of pity or compassion.

All people of the world

Are bound to enter the path of death;

None is born who is parted from it.

These words: my wife and children,

They are close and intimate to me;

These are my possessions,

They draw near beside me;

These are my friends and companions—

The mind, through delusion, is sick.

Reflecting confusedly in this way,

A great calamity is right before the eyes,

Yet the foolish and blind do not see it.

When they have come, those kinsfolk

Cannot rescue one from calamity.

Pondering this thoroughly here,

He forthwith attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

The intimate companions and the inner and outer kinfolk of the king, seeing the king attain the Way and depart far from worldly affairs—because it is precisely the parting from loved ones that is a fire that burns and consumes, giving rise to vexation and affliction. At that time the body of that Pratyekabuddha flew up into the open sky, performed the eighteen kinds of transformations, and spoke the verse as above.

There is also a tradition that says: When this king was still a Prince, on entering a garden he saw certain blind men who often received help. When they heard that the Prince had appeared, there was at once food and drink to be had; so they gathered on both sides of the road, and because they could not see the way, they fell into a deep pit. Some were killed, others were wounded in the head, their hands and feet broken, their bodies bruised and dark. At that time the Prince, seeing such suffering as this, reflected with weariness and spoke these words: "This has caused me to awaken. Even these blind men were once wealthy, and through wanton dissipation they now suffer thus. Now that I have seen this matter, I must do good deeds and not be dissipated." Thereupon he spoke a verse, saying:

Just as if one burns a golden hairpin

To use it as an adornment—

The golden hairpin, though precious,

In the end becomes perilous when burned by fire.

The royal throne is also like this:

One must not let oneself be dissipated.

The blind men have awakened me;

I have no doubt within myself.

The very cause of the royal throne—

The body is prone to give rise to arrogance and pride,

Oppressing the people within the country,

So that all give rise to suffering and affliction.

Afterward one personally receives the retribution of suffering,

And that suffering is a thousandfold.

Since I see them undergo suffering,

How can I alone be at ease and happy?

This is indeed my Master,

Showing me the various sufferings.

Reflecting in this way,

He forthwith attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

At that time the Prince bestowed upon the blind men precious wealth, then, wearing the Dharma-robes of a Śramaṇa, flew up into the open sky and manifested the various spiritual transformations, saying to his kinfolk: "As for me now, I have no more anger, delusion, fear, or anxiety; I am not ashamed before you in casting off my body and kin, my country and land, my people; nor again am I anxious about wealth and precious treasures," as he had spoken in the verse above.

The story of how the King of the country of Kauśāmbī awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

Delighting and reveling in objects of delight,

Giving and relinquishing like tears.

Abdicating the throne so as to depart far away,

Cutting off and extinguishing the various sufferings and afflictions.

Able to end delusion, greed, and craving,

This mind attains liberation.

Because of this attainment of liberation,

Meeting matters like the rhinoceros.

Of old, taught by the Master before,

I came to hear of this matter thus.

In times of old there was a Pratyekabuddha who, in past ages of the Buddhas, had cultivated the various roots of goodness, and in his final body was born in the country of Kauśāmbī and became king of that country. In this country there was a great calamity: violent winds shifted about, and the stars of heaven were thrown into disorder. The king summoned the astrologers and spoke a verse, asking:

By what condition is there this calamity?

For long there has been no rain.

In the sky there are no clouds,

And the sun has no light.

The flesh of birds is all poisonous and harmful,

The vultures together with the cuckoos

Wheel and soar in the open sky.

Seeing this, fear arises,

And everywhere there is calamity.

Who has brought about this matter,

Causing such strange and uncanny portents,

Changing about in this manner?

At that time the Royal Envoys then replied: "According as we know, we shall now speak. In my opinion, all the people of the country are bound to meet with difficult sufferings and calamities." The king asked again: "Whence has this calamity come?" The Envoys replied: "If the king wishes the country to be at peace and security, then he should follow my words," and spoke a verse, saying:

If the king can relinquish the throne

And flee away together with another,

Then, when the full six months have passed,

And become once more a mendicant,

The calamity will of itself be dispelled,

And the king will be like the full moon.

The king, following this counsel, then relinquished the royal throne, dressed in ordinary clothes, and went traveling from place to place, until he arrived at the city of Bhāṣita. When he had arrived at the city, there came yet another king who led troops to attack. Because the king of the country of Bhāṣita loved his country, he and his soldiers put up resistance. The two sides joined battle, and both kings were slain. The Princes of the city of Bhāṣita rose up together to contend for the country, and again created great battles. Seeing this, King Vilāsana cried out aloud in a manner full of terror and forthwith spoke a verse, saying:

Though the royal throne is honored and noble,

That joy is truly slight.

Why then do they act thus,

So as to create suffering and calamity?

The mind is prone to give rise to fighting,

And joy falls into a place of suffering.

Like a fly greedy to feed on honey

That, stuck in the honey, is not alone in its grief—

People too are likewise:

Through greed for a little joy

They fight and slay one another.

The royal throne is contended for,

Gathering together many sufferings and afflictions,

Even to the point of wishing to slay one another,

As though one had drunk a poisonous drug:

The poison seeps in, and the body is ruined.

Merely for the sake of this one body

Many wounds and injuries are inflicted.

The foolish, greedy for the joy of the royal throne—

The joy is little, the suffering truly much.

From now on I am resolved to cease,

And forthwith seek not this joy.

For these affairs of the country

Are filled within with anxious care.

Of what benefit is that joy?

Anxiety and the suffering of affliction go on forever,

Like a house made of gold

That is burned and forever consumed by fire.

The wise, fearing the burning,

Should not again enter within.

When he had finished pondering thus,

He forthwith awakened as a Pratyekabuddha.

By that power of spiritual penetration,

His hair fell away of itself,

And straightway he took on the form of a Śramaṇa.

With his body he flew up on high,

And there within the open sky

He forthwith spoke the verse as above.

Afterward he flew to the Snow Mountains, to the place of the Pratyekabuddhas, and those Pratyekabuddhas asked: "By what cause and condition did you attain awakening to the fruit of the Way?" To all of them he replied by speaking the verse as above.

The story of how King Senāpati of the country of Vārāṇasī awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

The world is steeped throughout in joy and revelry,

Loving again and again what is to be loved.

All of it he casts away,

And his mind and intent attain liberation.

The faculties are then at peace and security;

He walks alone like the rhinoceros.

I of old, from the various Masters,

Received and heard of such a matter as this.

In a past age, in the city of Vārāṇasī, there was a king named Senāpati who had two consorts; his mind was prone to fond attachment, delighting and drowning in the pleasures of desire, often dissipated, sunk in wine and revelry—like a rutting elephant that, scenting fragrance, rushes into the place of fragrance and seeks out the Malaya Mountain to enjoy the pleasures of desire. At that time the two consorts gave rise to mutual hatred, manifesting base and mean conduct.

One wife employed poison and gave it to a kinsman, and this kinsman used it to harm the other consort. The consort drank the drug and straightway went mad and lost consciousness, and the poison seeped in, causing her to die. The second consort, seeing that this one had died, falsely manifested grief and sorrow, herself letting down her hair and beating her breast, weeping and lamenting, and the whole palace was filled with grief.

The king, hearing of the death, straightway gave rise to grief and affliction. The consorts, to left and right, all had attendants, hung all over with garlands of pearls upon their persons, all of them beautiful—smearing earth upon their bodies, the poison entering their hearts, as though hard-pressed by a flock of geese, as though a Garuḍa had seized upon a Nāga-maiden. Within the palace the court women cried out like thunder, just like this.

At that time within the palace it was as though empty and void, and as though black dust had obscured the light; the palace folk, anxious and grieving in their thoughts, were likewise so. When the king heard the palace folk thus, he straightway grieved and suffered, his mind shaken within. The garland-crown he was wearing and his garments, as well as the garlands upon his body, he all took off and cast upon the ground, and entered the place of mourning, seeing all the court women in suffering exceeding bitter.

When the king had seen this, he gave rise to great grief and affliction, and reflecting to himself, he forthwith spoke a verse, saying:

Just as the sky of the summer season

Is prone to make fair flowers wither,

On the day of death the human form dissolves,

The complexion changes to dark green and black,

The lips and teeth all reek with stench,

The eyes and nose flow together with discharge.

The wondrous grace of song and dance—

Now it is like firewood and stone.

You who were before so prone to hear me,

Fond attachment was truly a joy.

Why is it that today

I am prone to give rise to fear?

Afraid and anxious over life and death,

Impure together with foul-smelling,

Like a dream, false and not real,

Just like the pith of a plantain tree

That has no true and real form,

Like the illusory bubble and foam yonder,

Gradually appearing like froth upon water.

The wise are prone to depart from evil;

The witless, having observed,

Are prone to give rise to clinging delight,

And toward that which is impure

They give rise to this notion of the body,

Deluded and grieved, they grasp and hold it fast,

Just like one heavy with sleep.

Before he had finished reflecting thus, the cremation of the consort's corpse had already been completed. As for the second consort, she fled away; eating, drinking, and speaking deceitfully, and afflicting herself, she said she did not wish to eat and manifested grief and sorrow. Because of this anxiety, her appearance betrayed it, and her mind was ever anxious and grieving. Because of this grief and anxiety, her food and drink did not digest, and she became gravely ill. The king, seeing the illness, was prone to increased grief and gloom, and straightway wished to depart far away. Thus is birth-and-death truly to be lamented; and he forthwith spoke a verse, saying:

As woman is prone to give rise to love,

It engenders many kinds of entanglement and vexation.

Human beings are not without it—

Through love arises a feeling of joy,

But in the end it gives rise to sorrow and suffering.

Love is the root of suffering;

Seeing love unite and disperse,

One clearly understands impermanence.

That which I love and cherish,

Upright and handsome in the prime of youth—

In a single day death again arrives.

Therefore one must clearly understand:

Why should there be any joy?

Who is it that has wisdom?

Caring and loving at the time of meeting,

So as to give rise to a mind of clinging delight—

Fearing old age, sickness, and death,

Therefore I am resolved to depart.

When he had reflected in this way,

He forthwith became a Pratyekabuddha.

Then, wearing kingly robes and bedecked with garlands, he flew up into the open sky, and within the open sky he spoke the verse as above. Transformed into a Śramaṇa, he flew to the Snow Mountains, to the same place as the other Pratyekabuddhas.

The story of how the Youngest Son of a Cakravartin awakened to the cause of becoming a Pratyekabuddha.

In a certain past kalpa there was a Cakravartin, a Wheel-Turning Sage King, complete with a thousand sons. This youngest son, when he saw his father seated upon a golden carriage fully adorned with the seven treasures, together with his attendant troops, drums and gongs, parasols and canopies, all of it accomplished by their strength and all set in good order—this Youngest Son then asked his mother: "When shall I obtain such a beautiful canopy to shade me?" The mother then replied: "My child, even until you become a heap of bones it will still be hard to obtain such a thing." The child then asked: "Why can I not obtain it?" "Because you still have nine hundred and ninety-nine brothers, every one of whom wishes to obtain the royal throne,

and they will all succeed one another in turn—how could it ever come to you?" The youngest son thought: "Surely I cannot obtain such a thing.

And if there were a chance, it would only be flesh and bone destroying one another," and reflecting upon such matters of birth-and-death, he came to feel weariness and aversion, and forthwith awakened and attained Pratyekabuddhahood. His body flew up into the open sky and produced the eighteen kinds of transformations. The mother then made entreaty from afar: "Come to my garden to receive offerings." At that time the Pratyekabuddha accepted his mother's request and then came to the rear garden.

Day after day she made offerings, and after much time had passed, that Pratyekabuddha then put down this body and relinquished it so as to enter Nirvāṇa. The mother, out of fond regret, took fragrant firewood to cremate him, gathered the relics, and placed them within a precious vase. There in the rear garden she built a stūpa for veneration.

At that time the Wheel-Turning King, returning from making his rounds of the four gates of the city, then came to the rear garden and saw a great stūpa. Astonished, he inquired, and the keeper of the garden reported to the king, saying: "This is your youngest son, who became a Pratyekabuddha and has entered Nirvāṇa. The mothers therefore built this stūpa." After he had heard this, the king summoned the mothers and asked: "Why did my son die, and why was this stūpa built?" The mothers, according to the matter above, related it fully to the king.

The king asked the mother again: "What did my son wish to obtain? Why did he not tell me clearly, but now is only in Nirvāṇa?" Afterward the king adorned the stūpa above. By reason of this cause and condition, throughout immeasurable kalpas he was ever a Wheel-Turning Sage King, his food and drink being merit naturally arisen, which even now is not exhausted.

Wherever he was born and died, throughout all of two thousand five hundred lifetimes he was a Wheel-Turning Sage King. Because he attained Buddhahood, he obtained two thousand five hundred jeweled canopies. Among them, King Ajātaśatru offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies.

The Licchavi sons of Vaiśālī offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies. The Ocean Nāga King offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies. The Asura King likewise offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies. Śakra, Lord of the Devas, likewise offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies.

At that time the World-Honored One accepted not a single one of them. Why so? Because in the future the disciples would be poor with regard to offerings of robes and of food and drink.

By this, the power of merit would cause the Devas and humans to provide for them of their own accord. By reason of this cause and condition, one clearly understands that the field of merit of the Sages and Worthies is all broad and deep beyond all comparison.

Treatise on the Causes and Conditions of the Pratyekabuddhas.

End of the lower fascicle.