燈指因緣經

If one plants even a few seeds of goodness in the supreme field of merit, one obtains the joys of the realms of devas and humans, and afterward attains Nirvāṇa. A person of wisdom should therefore wholeheartedly and diligently cultivate wholesome deeds. To speak of the field of merit is to speak of the Buddha.

The Buddha's body shines with radiance like a gathering of pure gold light. He is adorned with the merit of wisdom, and so he possesses the perfect divine eye, skillfully observing the faculties of all sentient beings; for a world shrouded in darkness he is a bright lamp, for a world steeped in ignorance he is an intimate friend; replete in all that is wholesome, his renown resounds afar. Muni, the World-Honored One, is the refuge for humans and devas alike.

Whoever cultivates merit with a sincere and earnest heart shall obtain a good and fitting fruit of recompense.

In ancient times, the city of Rājagṛha lay among five mountains, and it was also one of the five capitals of the kingdom of Magadha. Rājagṛha was a bustling capital, in which the streets were as broad and magnificent as garden courtyards. The houses were wondrous, their vaulted roofs soaring high and spacious, with railings all around enclosing forests and exquisite lakes, the flowing waters coursing out and back, intersecting and circulating.

The groves of trees were dense, their branches and leaves luxuriant. Flowers and fruits laden the boughs, reflecting back the very light of the sun and moon. The subtle, marvelous fragrance of the flowering groves wafted richly and spread in all four directions upon the wind.

Throughout the city of Rājagṛha, those of surpassing wisdom who cultivated the holy life came here from afar. All the land of this place was adorned with supreme splendor, and the mind found joy and ease here. King Ajātaśatru was the one who governed this city.

He ruled the country by the true Dharma and transformed it through the teaching of the Way, and so he was honored by people near and far, who gathered here to dwell. Person after person cultivated goodness; the people of the land were numerous, ever enjoying a life of abundance and happiness.

At that time, there was within the city an elder. His household was wealthy, his storehouses brimming full like those of Vaiśravaṇa, yet he had no son to carry on his family line. He therefore performed rites of prayer and supplication to the gods and spirits to ask for a child.

Before long his wife conceived, and when the full ten months were complete she gave birth to a baby boy. By the latent causes of a former life the child possessed merit, and so on the very day of his birth one finger of his hand emitted a great radiance that shone forth for ten leagues. The child's parents, overjoyed, immediately arranged a great assembly, inviting their kinsmen and the physiognomists to come and bestow a name upon their son.

Because the child's finger possessed a halo of light, they named him Aṅgulidīpa (the Lamp-Finger). Everyone at the feast saw that the child bore extraordinary marks and praised it as something unprecedented. Among the assembly was a brahmin named Vasu, who comprehended all matters, was learned and widely versed, and knew by heart the four canons of the holy Veda scriptures.

Seeing that the child had a strange appearance and extraordinary features, Vasu smiled and said: "This child may be the deva Nārāyaṇa, Śakra-devānām-indra, the Sun-deva, or one of the great virtuous ones of the heavens come down to be born." When the child's parents heard this, they rejoiced all the more, and they arranged a ritual assembly for seven days and seven nights, giving alms and performing meritorious deeds. Because of this, the report spread throughout the whole country, and all came to know of the matter of the elder begetting a son of merit.

The good report reached even the ears of the king. When the king heard this, he issued a command, and the elder, obeying the royal decree, carried the child into the royal palace. It happened that the king was holding a banquet with all manner of music in joyous tumult, and so no one announced their arrival.

The elder did not dare to enter and simply stood waiting out in front. The child's finger radiated light, shining all the way into the palace, blazing bright and glowing red. The light shone upon the royal person and then illumined the whole palace.

Everything was suffused with the color of pure gold. The light shone throughout the royal palace as though it were sunk deep within a vast and boundless sea of water. The king, marveling at this, asked:

"Whence comes this light, that it should suddenly shine into my palace? Could it be that the World-Honored One has manifested for sentient beings and come to our place? Or could it be a great virtuous one of the devas, Śakra-devānām-indra, the Sun-deva, descended here?"

The king sent someone out to the gate to look. That person went out, looked, and returned to report to the king:

"Your Majesty! The child whom Your Majesty summoned is standing before the gate. One of his fingers emits a light that shines all the way here, and so there is this radiance."

The king decreed: "Quickly carry the child here!" When the king saw how extraordinary the child was, he took hold of his hand to read his marks and said:

"The six heterodox masters do not know cause and effect, the true and the false, and deceive and sow doubt. If there were no cause and effect, how could there be this child? From his birth until now his countenance is surpassingly fine and his finger shines bright—this alone is sufficient proof.

Those who harm sentient beings will fall into evil destinies. By my discernment, this child has not come down from heaven by transformation, nor is it by some marvel that his finger naturally shines; surely it is because in a former life he sowed seeds of merit through causes and conditions, and so he reaps a wholesome fruit of recompense, and is able to hear the true words of the Buddha's holy truths. The Buddha expounds the many kinds of karmic causes and conditions that adorn the world.

All sentient beings see that there is recompense, yet refuse to cultivate merit—how strange a thing this is!"

The king continued: "Now I am still in doubt, not knowing whether this light is from the sun or is the shining radiance of that finger. I wish to examine this matter."

When the sun had set and they had waited until midnight, the king and his ministers placed the child upon the back of an elephant and led him out into a garden in front. The light from the child's finger shone brilliantly, dispelling the veil of night. The birds, beasts, flowers, and fruits in the garden could be seen as plainly as in broad daylight. The king exclaimed in praise: "How wondrous and subtle are the words the Buddha expounds! This day my heart's faith in cause and effect grows ever firmer, and I despise the six masters for their utter folly and delusion. Therefore toward the Buddha I revere and esteem him twofold."

At that, Jīvaka said to the king:

"Your Majesty! In the sutras the Buddha expounds: 'If one does not see karma, one is stingy and greedy. But if one sees karma, stinginess and greed are forever brought to an end.' Now we see that Aṅgulidīpa possesses such merit; even were he to be reduced to utter destitution and ruin, he would still cultivate wholesome deeds—how much more so when one is wealthy, should one not refuse to perform merit."

As soon as Jīvaka finished speaking, the night had grown deep. Everyone led Aṅgulidīpa back to the palace. The king, greatly pleased, bestowed upon him many jewels and treasures and then permitted Aṅgulidīpa to return home.

As the months and years passed, Aṅgulidīpa gradually grew up. The elder, his father, sought out many households of high station, wishing to find a suitable match to seek in marriage as a wife for Aṅgulidīpa. The elder's family was wealthy and complete in every respect: in ritual propriety, in family tradition; and so the household was harmonious and its material wealth flourishing.

But alas! Where there is flourishing there is decline, and where there is gathering there is parting. The elder and his wife both passed away; like the sun whose form is hidden, its light yielding its place to the veil of night.

Like the orb of the moon grown dim when the dawn breaks. Like a ruddy flame that fades and dies, leaving only a heap of ashes and cinders. Robust health and beauty are destroyed when illness rages.

The young man in his prime will be invaded by old age; one cherishes this body, and then the lord of death seizes one's life. After his parents had passed away, the means of his livelihood gradually wasted away, and Aṅgulidīpa, having been wealthy and extravagant in his youth, did not preserve the family estate; he consorted with bad companions, his mind dissolute, indulging in wine and women, spending money without measure.

The reserves and accumulations of the storehouse were left with no one to manage them, like the full moon that gradually wanes and is utterly lost.

At that time, this country had a custom of holding a festival once a year. Everyone gathered and assembled around the mountain. Aṅgulidīpa too came to attend the festival; he adorned himself in lavish extravagance, bringing musical instruments and leading along courtesans, all of them so resplendent as to be no different from royalty.

Everyone at the festival respected and praised his splendor. Together they ate, drank, and made merry to their hearts' content; drums and bells competed in rising sound, and song and music resounded afar. Across the vast plain they sported and danced, and the sounds of their revelry rang out so loudly as nearly to "shake the mountains and fill the caverns." When the band of robbers learned that Aṅgulidīpa had gone to attend the festival and had not yet returned, they came to his house and lay in wait; seeing no one there, they at once attacked and plundered all his wealth, leaving not a single thing.

When night fell and Aṅgulidīpa returned, he saw that his house had been swept clean by the robbers, with only timber, stones, bricks, and tiles strewn in disorder. Seeing the state of things, in despair he collapsed to the ground; those beside him sprinkled water upon him before he revived. Sorrowfully weeping, he reflected: "In former days my father, with fitting methods, performed many works, managed and built up the family estate, and laboring hard amassed wealth to fill the storehouses.

My father begot me and raised me to maturity, seeing that there was one to whom he could entrust and consign all this; why then did I refuse to preserve my father's enterprise? I became a deceitful, lazy man chasing after fleeting phantoms. My father's wealth and storehouses in a single day dissolved into emptiness, the livestock scattered in flight, and looking all about the house there remains only my child wearing a necklace and a few sets of clothes.

If I trade these for a morsel of food to get me through this urgent moment, that too will all be gone—so what am I to do?"

At that time, the light upon Aṅgulidīpa's finger also vanished. Because he was so destitute, his wife despised him and abandoned him and left. His servants and attendants likewise fled and disappeared.

His kinsmen and relations, those acquaintances with whom his bonds had been warm and intimate, now turned their backs and severed ties as though they were enemies. Seeing him impoverished, and fearing he would follow them to beg, they turned their faces in anger. Even his wife and child cast him off—how much more so strangers.

One should know that the condition of poverty and want is like a hell; destitution and a precarious existence are no different from death. Having formerly lived a life of wealth and rank, now meeting with utter destitution, he had nothing to rely upon and no place of refuge. The fire of worry and affliction burned within him, the sorrows blazing and seething.

His complexion withered and his countenance grew gaunt, changing visibly. His body grew thin and emaciated, worn down by hunger and thirst. His eyes gradually dimmed, and all his bones jutted out.

Thin skin enveloped sinews and blood vessels that lay exposed. His hair was disheveled, his hands and feet shrunken and frail. The color of his skin turned pallid white, his body filthy.

Moreover, having no scrap of clothing to cover his body, Aṅgulidīpa went into a foul-smelling rubbish heap and gathered pieces large and small, patching them together to wear, that he might at last cover his gaunt frame. Aṅgulidīpa ate and slept in the filthy rubbish heap with no bed or mat, and many of his old acquaintances who saw him did not recognize him. He went through all the lanes and roads begging for food like a starving crow.

One day Aṅgulidīpa knew there was a friend's house by the roadside and went to beg for a morsel of food, but the gatekeeper barred him and would not let him in. Yet Aṅgulidīpa would not heed this and lay in wait and broke in, and so suffered a beating, painful and humiliating. The master of the house ran out, took up a whip, and meant to strike him further, whereupon Aṅgulidīpa hastily bowed down, knelt, and pleaded for forgiveness.

The master of the house, despising him and paying him no heed, nonetheless let him into the house, but regarded him as worthless, said not a word, would not let him sit, and tossed into a vessel a little food that was not enough to satisfy him. Now, in that country there was a custom of holding festivals for marrying a wife, bearing a child, or shaving the hair. Aṅgulidīpa edged his way into such gatherings, hoping to beg for the leftover food.

But people despised him and would not let him sit, and again drove him outside. Aṅgulidīpa still strove to plead, and so received a little leftover food held in the bowls of the servants. Aṅgulidīpa reflected: "How have I come to such a state as this, so poor and so alone?" And he thought further: "Today my spirit is as though sunk in a stupor, my mind has lost all power of perception.

I do not know what form I now bear that was once mine of old, that I should receive such a body as this. The bitter suffering of this worldly life is no mere chance; my life is like a grove of trees without flowers that the bees shun. Like grass and stones touched by frost and mildew, withered and fallen.

Like a pond and lake dried up that swan and wild goose no longer frequent. Like a paddy field that, once reaped, has no one to gather and keep it. Now that I am destitute and wretched, were I to recount my former wealth, no one would believe it; and to say it would be of no use!

Most people of the world do not even know me. Because I am poor and wretched, my future is dim and obscure, like a wild field with fire raging across it. There is no one who loves me, like a withered tree with no shade, no place to take shelter.

Like seedlings damaged by hail, frost, and mildew, ruined and yielding no harvest. Like a house with a venomous snake that all shun. Like food laced with poison that no one will taste.

Like an abandoned grave that no one tends. Like a foul, filthy privy filled with stench. Like a butcher whom the people of the world loathe.

Like a habitual thief whom people suspect—I too am like all these circumstances. My every move and gesture is despised and doubted. As for speaking—if I open my mouth it only adds to my suffering; though what I say be correct, they will hold it to be wrong.

If I do a wholesome deed, they hold it to be evil. Sometimes if I seize the moment and act quickly, I am disdained as crude. If I relax and take my ease, I am reproached as too sluggish.

Should I offer praise, people say I am flattering. If I do not praise, they slander me, saying: 'That destitute sort of person never has anything fine to say.' If I instruct, I am scolded for falsely feigning the understanding of an esteemed elder. And if I speak fluently, people say I boast.

If I keep silent and say nothing, people think I am concealing something. If I speak frankly, they say I am crude. If I seek to accord with someone's intent, they say I am flattering and devious.

If I have the intention to draw near and rely on someone, they say I am deceitful and beguiling. If I do not draw near, they say I am arrogant and insolent. If I follow along with their words, they say: 'He is feigning to keep another's mind.' If I do not comply, they say I am willful.

If I 'cling to the foot and hide in the shadow,' I am scolded as cowardly and base. If I do not follow their intent, they scold me, saying that a poor man still has a sense of self. If I let myself be a little free and easy, they say I am a fool with no caution.

If I am humble, they say: 'He is not crude—it is only that he disguises himself with a proper, upright bearing.' If I amuse myself and take my ease, they revile me, saying: 'His state is like that of a madman.' If I am sorrowful and grieved, they say: 'So from beginning to end his heart is never glad; he is one of a poisonous nature.' If I listen intently to another's words, they judge: 'He is so ordered about, taking folly in place of wisdom, that he suffers much shame.' If I remain silent, they again say I am foolish and do not know reason.

If I engage in little idle talk, they say I do not believe in sin and merit. If I make inquiries, they say: 'He gets by however he pleases and knows no sense of honor or shame.' If I make no demands, they say: 'Though he asks nothing now, later he will hope for much more.' If I cite scriptures in speaking, they say I falsely feign cleverness. If I speak in plain, simple words, they again disdain me as dull and obtuse.

If I publicly discuss the truth, they say I speak noisily. If I whisper of private matters, even though I speak right speech, they say: 'He is slandering and fawning.' If I wear new clothes, they say I have borrowed adornments. If I wear torn clothes, they mock me as wretched and ragged.

If I eat and drink much, they say I am starving and greedy for food. If I eat and drink little, they say: 'In his belly he is really hungry but feigns restraint.' If I speak of sutras and treatises, they say: 'He displays his own understanding, meaning to show off that he is less ignorant than others.' If I do not speak of sutras and treatises, they say I am foolish and ignorant, fit to be sent to herd oxen. If I recount my former enterprise, they say I praise my own enterprise and am boastful.

If I keep silent, they say his family's wealth and estate are already exhausted.

For poor and wretched people, whether they go or stand, come or go, speak, look up or bow down—all of it is fault and error. But for the wealthy and noble, in their every move and gesture whatever they do is right, and even if they commit acts contrary to the law, they bear no blame. The destitute person is like a moving ghost-corpse that all fear; like one stricken with an incurable disease hard to treat; like a desolate and perilous place utterly without a drop of water or a blade of grass.

Like falling into the great sea, drowning amid the surging waves. Like one whose throat is pressed shut so the breath cannot come forth. Like eyes afflicted with disease that cannot see the road.

Like a high heap of refuse hard to clear away. Like an enemy who, though they live together, cannot put aside their malicious heart. Like a well dried up in summer, into which whoever falls will suffocate and die.

Like sinking into a deep marsh from which one cannot get out. Like a landslide of mountains with waters rushing torrentially. Like a fierce wind that snaps and topples trees—poverty is just like this.

All these hardships and destitution can destroy: beauty and youthful vigor, strength, renown, lineage, home, wisdom, observance of the precepts, generosity, conscience and shame, benevolence and righteousness, faith and conduct, courage and valor, resolve—all are lost. And there arise hunger and cold, hatred, crudeness, narrowness, sorrow, malice, resentment, and the incurring of sins; such sufferings as these are born of destitution.

It is as though many sundry things lay concealed, and hidden in the shadow within poverty is every kind of suffering and affliction of body and mind. Ah! As for the wealthy person, his majestic virtue is lofty and noble, his countenance dignified, his mind generous, broad and forbearing, manifesting ritual propriety and righteousness; he can give rise to wisdom and courage, increase the family estate, his kinsfolk are harmonious, and his good name spreads afar.

Aṅgulidīpa reflected: "I am so poor that in all the world none can compare with me. I cannot kill myself to be rid of this body, so what method can I find to sustain my survival?" And he thought again: "The people of the world are coarse and base—enough! At most I will go and carry corpses; although that work ranks among evil deeds, in a later life I will not undergo karmic suffering for it; it is better than doing other things such as killing living beings, or other unwholesome acts.

Following this thought, I will go and beg to be hired to carry corpses."

At that time, there was someone who heard that Aṅgulidīpa was seeking work and agreed to hire him to carry a corpse, and Aṅgulidīpa accepted. Aṅgulidīpa, following his guide, carried a corpse to the cemetery. When he arrived, Aṅgulidīpa wished to throw it down, but the corpse at once embraced Aṅgulidīpa, gripping him tightly so that he could not pry it off, like a child clinging to its parents.

Aṅgulidīpa, struggling with all his might to break free and run, still could not escape. The corpse clung to his spine like glue, and he could not let it go nor get it off. Aṅgulidīpa, terrified, reflected: "Now I must find some place to seek rescue for myself." Hurriedly he ran into a Caṇḍāla village, crying out: "If anyone can pry this corpse off my back, I will pay him double the price." The Caṇḍālas heard clearly, and all together they came to pull at the corpse, but still it would not come off.

There was one standing outside who, seeing this, scolded Aṅgulidīpa: "Madman! Why do you carry a corpse and run into other people's village?" Then they crowded together, took up sticks to beat him and gathered stones to throw. Aṅgulidīpa's body was covered with wounds, in pain mingled with terror.

Someone took pity on him and brought him to the city. Just as he was being helped to beneath the city gate, the gatekeeper stopped him and beat Aṅgulidīpa, not letting him come near the gate. For who is so foolish as to carry a corpse into a city?

Aṅgulidīpa looked back upon his own state, his body covered with wounds from sticks and clubs. Overflowing with anguish, he wept loudly and said: "It was for the sake of a morsel of food that I did this base work, and today I suddenly meet with great suffering. It is because of my destitution that I could find no work, and so I had to take up this lowly trade.

I only hoped to earn money to support myself, yet after but a single day I meet with such bitterness. But I would rather carry another corpse than carry a living body." Weeping as he recounted his plight, the gatekeeper was so moved that he let Aṅgulidīpa return home. Having no home of his own, he first begged for food together with the poor and wretched and dwelt among them, but when they saw the corpse upon his back, all of them left.

When he reached home, the corpse fell of itself to the ground, and at that Aṅgulidīpa was all the more terrified; in sorrow and despair he collapsed to the ground. After a long while he revived and saw that the whole arm of the corpse was pure gold. Though still afraid, seeing how beautiful the pure gold color was, he went to the side of the corpse and tried hacking at it with a knife, and indeed it was true pure gold.

Having obtained gold, Aṅgulidīpa rejoiced and took the knife to cut off the head, hands, and feet, and the moment the cutting was done, in an instant golden hands, feet, and head grew back exactly as before, just like a person of old. Like a king who had lost his country returning to his throne. Like a blind man whose eyes are healed seeing the light.

Like one who has long yearned for a certain young woman now meeting her in joyous union. Like one practicing meditation who suddenly attains realization of the Way—so did Aṅgulidīpa rejoice. Aṅgulidīpa came to possess storehouses of jewels and treasures many times more than before, his majestic virtue and renown surpassing that of former days.

His relatives, friends, wife, child, and servants all returned. Aṅgulidīpa lamented: "Alas! How strange—when wealth is at its peak it can swiftly make people return.

Oh, how strange! And when one is too poor, it can also make even one's intimates swiftly cast one off and depart. Formerly when I was poor and destitute and called on my intimates, they severed all dealings, and there was hardly a single person who would speak with me.

Today, all of them solemnly attend upon me, joining their palms in reverence. Even were one born in a place like Indra's, with the valor of Rāma and the discernment of a heavenly teacher, if one had no wealth one would not be treated thus. Whoever is wealthy, without need to ask whether he is wise or foolish, all extol him as good.

Even if in truth he knows nothing, the people of the world still take him for wise, and he too obtains great power and authority, a sweet name and good repute. Though he be aged and ugly, there are still young and beautiful women who love him and stay close by his side."

At that time, with Aṅgulidīpa wealthy and noble once again, King Ajātaśatru issued a command for someone to come and collect that treasure, but it was only a corpse, which they threw back into the house. Yet the corpse turned back into true gold. Aṅgulidīpa, knowing the king wished to obtain this treasure, took the golden head, hands, and feet and offered them to the king. Having obtained the gold, the king returned to his palace. Afterward Aṅgulidīpa reflected and spoke a verse:

The five desires are all too easily stirred,
Like lightning, like the venom of a poisonous worm.
Glory and splendor do not long endure—
Swiftly give rise to a mind of weariness and renunciation.

Aṅgulidīpa took the precious treasure and gave alms to all, then went forth from home to seek the Way according to the Dharma of the Tathāgata, and with diligent cultivation realized arhatship. Although he attained the fruit of the Way, the golden corpse constantly followed beside him. One day, a certain bhikṣu asked the Buddha:

"World-Honored One! By what causes and conditions has the bhikṣu Aṅgulidīpa, from birth until now, had a finger that emits light? By what causes and conditions did he have to undergo the state of poverty and destitution? And by what causes and conditions does a golden corpse constantly follow beside him?"

The Buddha said:

"O bhikṣu, listen with single-minded attention! I shall tell you of those latent causes for your sake."

In ancient times, the bhikṣu Aṅgulidīpa was born in the country of Vārāṇasī, in the family of a great elder. When Aṅgulidīpa was small, he took a carriage out to roam abroad and returned only in the evening, when the house gate was already shut. He called out loudly: "Open the gate!"—but not a single person came to open it.

After a long while his mother came out to open the gate for the little child. He angrily scolded his mother, saying: "Has the whole household gone off to carry corpses? Or have robbers come and killed everyone!

That not a living soul comes out to open the gate for me." Because of that karmic cause, Aṅgulidīpa, when he died, fell into hell, and when he was reborn as a human, the residual recompense of hell remaining, he had to undergo that state of poverty and destitution. As for the matter of the finger's light and the golden corpse, I shall tell you:

In the past, ninety-one kalpas ago, there was a Buddha named Vipaśyin. After the Buddha Vipaśyin entered Nirvāṇa, his Dharma abided long in the world. At that time, Aṅgulidīpa was a great elder.

His family was very wealthy. One day, Aṅgulidīpa went to a temple stūpa to pay reverence, and there he saw a clay statue from which a finger had broken off and fallen. Aṅgulidīpa picked up the finger and repaired it, and overlaid the statue with gold leaf, and made this vow: "I will offer incense, flowers, and music as offerings, and then, by the merit of repairing the statue, relying upon that merit I vow: Whether I am born in the heavens or as a human, may I dwell in a place honored, noble, and wealthy; and should I fall back down again, may I still be thus.

Then may it help me to go forth from home within the Dharma of the Tathāgata and attain the Way." Because Aṅgulidīpa repaired the Buddha's finger, he obtained a finger with a halo of light and a corpse all of gold. And because of his harsh speech, when he came out of hell he suffered the recompense of poverty and destitution.

When the Buddha expounded this sutra concerning the matter of Aṅgulidīpa, there were devas and people who scattered all manner of flowers and played heavenly music. When the devas had finished making offerings, they returned to their heavenly palaces. This is the cause and condition by which, having sown only a little merit toward an image, one still obtains the recompense of merit, even up to the fruit of Nirvāṇa; if repairing an image is thus, how much more the Dharma-body of the Tathāgata?

If, toward the Dharma of the Tathāgata, one cultivates practice according to the teaching, then that merit is without limit or measure. If one wishes to be born in the heavens, or wishes to be a human enjoying happiness, then one must listen to the Dharma with single-minded attention. As for Aṅgulidīpa undergoing the recompense of great suffering, it was because of the matter of harsh speech.

One should fear all anguish and suffering, keep far away from harsh speech and all unwholesome deeds, and follow these teachings. All people of the world, in their glory, wealth, and rank, are greedy and never know contentment, whereas the devas in their honored and noble places have no need to delight in pleasure. One should know that destitution is the gathering of great suffering; if one wishes to cut off destitution, one should not be greedy.

As it is taught in the sutra: The destitute person undergoes great suffering.

The Sutra of the Causes and Conditions of Aṅgulidīpa