賓頭盧突羅闍為優陀延王說法經

The flavors one desires are truly few, while the grief, suffering, conflict, and dread are truly many. One who is wise should therefore trust in skillful means, keep far from objects of craving and greed, and diligently practice pure conduct. In times past I have heard it told thus: There was a god of heavenly merit named Udayana, who invited his own father to come so that he might be enthroned as king in the city of Kauśāmbī.

This city was exceedingly beautiful, spacious, dignified, and pure; its palaces were radiant and pleasing to the eye, their adornment a delight to behold, their gates and walls connecting one to another, joined together like a net of mesh. Houses and towered pavilions, tens of thousands of them, were all built within this city. The streets and avenues were likewise.

The fields and gardens were laid out in orderly fashion, the markets thriving and abundant. There were many precious goods. The circuit of this city was encompassed by beautiful groves and gardens.

The trees were lush and dense, the flowers and fruits filled every tree, the spring waters were clear and limpid, and within them grew many lotus blossoms of every color—blue, yellow, red, and white. Their hues harmonized together, and there were many birds—doves, sparrows, parrots, and the Kalaviṅka, together with other kinds of birds—all raising their voices in song in harmony with one another, like an ensemble of music played in concert: dignified and magnificent, like the king of Mount Kelāsa that venerates the mountains and forests and thereby adorns itself.

There was also a statue of Śakra set up there for everyone to behold.

King Udayana was upright and handsome in appearance, possessed of an awe-inspiring bearing, intelligent and quick of wit, valiant beyond compare, accomplished in every art, so that there was no one who did not know of him. Moreover he was skilled at taming elephants, causing the elephants to gather together. He was able to mount and ride them.

All of them he could tame. He was also a master of the lute and song, his sounds gentle and refined, the notes of gong and string all in accord; and when he played, the birds and beasts would dance. Fragrant scents wafted from afar, which he used to subdue enemy armies, to drive off baleful influences, and to make them submit.

He was also skilled at carving and painting beautiful images. There were also statues he made that were like the real likeness, no different from it. In all sixty-two crafts the king was thoroughly versed; and even in matters of clothing, food, and drink there was no kind he did not know.

He even paid reverence to elders and gave heed to the common folk, governing the realm by the true Dharma, forgetting his weariness day and night. All ceremonies, laws, and statutes he based upon the ancient codes, fully complete like the kings of former ages; the people were rich and the nation strong, the granaries filled with grain, and those of merit and virtue all dwelt together in this nation. They received the king's teaching and transformation; some did wholesome deeds, were broadly versed in the scriptures, and clearly explained the reasoning of the worldly classics and allusions, there being none they had not refined and mastered.

So mighty, awe-inspiring, and valiant was he that even Rāma, son of Daśaratha, could scarcely be compared with him. It was because the king in a former time had deeply planted roots of goodness in the presence of a Pratyekabuddha that he obtained such merit and reward. The king's awesome virtue made even the neighboring countries hold him in respect; the light of the Way pervaded all, and his fame was spread throughout the world.

At that time there was the son of a Great Minister named Piṇḍola Bhāradvāja, whose bearing and demeanor were of surpassing excellence, rare in the world, intelligent and wise, broadly learned and of much hearing, kindly and benevolent, possessed of the resolve to rescue all kinds of beings from suffering. Therefore he exhorted and transformed the people of the realm to cultivate the Ten Wholesome Deeds and to place their faith in the Three Jewels.

He left the household life to study the Way and attained the perfect, complete fruit. Then he traveled here and there teaching and transforming, and returned to the city of Kauśāmbī to liberate his kinsfolk, and so went begging for alms. After he had finished begging for alms, beneath the root of a tree he sat cross-legged in meditative contemplation and entered into concentration.

At that time there was a person who recognized Piṇḍola, and so he returned and reported to the king, saying that this was indeed the son of the Great Minister of former days, named Piṇḍola, who was now nearby, seated beneath the root of a tree in the forest. The king, hearing this, was greatly delighted, his mind thirsting with reverence and admiration; and he straightway commanded that a carriage be brought, and together with his palace attendants and kinsfolk he went forth to welcome the Venerable One.

When greetings had been exchanged, the king sat down together with him, and the king then reflected upon the points of his doubts and brought them forth to ask, saying:

"Now, Piṇḍola, I ask you—you who know more or less of the affairs of old concerning your ancestors who, in their generations, served as Great Ministers, intelligent and far-reaching in wisdom, often acting as Royal Preceptors—now that I have met you, I wish to ask about these doubts of mine. Do not be displeased, but resolve them for my sake; might you do so?"

The Venerable One then replied: "In accordance with your questions, I shall, for the king's sake, distinguish and resolve them." The king at that time put his question in verse, saying:

All people of the world

Greedily cling to the five desires,

Following their feelings, indulgent and unrestrained,

And take this for their joy.

But you, as you are now,

Dwelling alone in idle solitude,

Far removed from love and affection—

In this what joy is there?

The Venerable One replied, saying:

"I contemplate causes and conditions—all are impermanent. Therefore I left the household life, cut off the bonds of feeling and affection, and delight in the trees and forests, like a young fawn, concentrating my mind in cultivation and keeping far from the afflictions. With wisdom as an axe I cut down the branches and leaves of the tree of craving and desire; my mind clinging to nothing, the poisonous fruit is destroyed. The fetters that flow across the river of birth-and-death I have already crossed over, and so I have no further grief or worry, like a bird or beast escaped from the spread net, far removed from all that is false and fabricated. Therefore it is called the fruit of liberation."

When the king heard these words, he then said to Piṇḍola:

"Now I have the power to subdue all the countries, and my awesome virtue is matched by none. If on some fine day, with the royal crown upon my head, my body covered with strings of jewels, with maidens following behind me in attendance like Śakra, king of the gods—and yet you now dwell apart, alone, without desire as I have. Is it not so?"

The Venerable One replied: "My mind has no desire for these things."

The king asked again: "Why is it that, though you might be as I am, you yet have no desire for it?"

The Venerable One replied: "Toward such desires I am now like a sorrow's filth already dried up and gone. The bonds of existence that bind fast—now I have attained liberation. Even were Śakra together with the beautiful goddesses to come, it still could not make me desire it—how much less the filth and foulness of this human realm. Whoever is a person of wisdom must depart from these demons, resolve to cross beyond the shore of birth-and-death, and so attain the pure eye of wisdom, resolving that the darkness of ignorance shall no longer harm and obscure him. Why, then, should I cling with longing to the throne of a king?

"Having a clear eye, how should one covet a blind one? Having gained good health, how should one covet sickness and suffering? Having reached a state free of offense, how should one covet a place of prison and bondage? Having gained wealth, how should one covet destitution? Having attained a noble and exalted station, how should one covet the condition of a servant? Having gained wisdom, how should one covet folly and delusion? Having gained valor and strength, why should one covet weakness?"

When the king had heard this, his mind bore many afflictions, and he said: "According to your similes and words, then am I, in my misery, suffering in just this way?"

The Venerable One replied: "The king has no eye of wisdom; the afflictions have made you sick. The four graspings cause you to drift and be carried into exile, causing you to lose your valor and strength, unable to be diligent—like a foolish little child who does not understand the right path, sunk and drowning in the sea of suffering; and the king has his share within it. Dwelling among the five desires, you give rise to the imagining of something rare, imagining this matter to be such—which is truly contrary to wholesome conduct."

The king asked again: "What is it that is wrong, that you speak of wrong so very much?"

The Venerable One replied: "These five desires are the fundamental sufferings that harm living beings, that harm the roots of goodness as one severs the sprout of life and torments living beings; like a venomous worm; again like a blazing fire that burns up all merits; again like the birds of the forest. Like a mad and frenzied ordinary man; again like an illusory transformation, deluded, confused, and full of doubt; desire feigns friendliness yet is like a hateful foe; desire is like an old ox not yet free of the filthy mire; desire is like being caught in a net that binds fast the three realms.

Desire is like the edge of a sword's path, hard to ward off; desire can bind fast and slay living beings. All that is wrong and perverse arises from desire. Just as in olden days there was Vasiṣṭha who, through the causes and conditions of desire, was bound by the asura Bali and cast into boiling water; Indra destroyed the city of the asuras and then slaughtered and slew the people there; and then, through tormenting and afflicting suffering, King Bali together with the eight Sunda kings and his hundred sons were all annihilated.

The asura Vipracitti harmed the thousand eyes of Rāma; Rāvaṇa was the cause by which the ten heads of the rākṣasa were harmed and by which countless thousands of millions of rākṣasas were harmed. King Dhṛtarāṣṭra-Kuśa and King Māraci destroyed the clan of Tāmra-cit. King Kārttavīrya, on account of the brahmin Yama-maṇi, committed slaughter.

Vena destroyed the kinsfolk of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. The five sons of the Pāṇḍavas slew eighteen koṭi of people. King Ajātaśatru together with his kinsfolk; King Gula together with his kinsfolk; King Mihira-Daṇḍaka together with his kindred and clan... all these kings, because of desire, then destroyed one another and annihilated one another.

Thereupon he spoke in verse, saying:

Though the throne of a king is honored and esteemed,

And the age repays its gratitude without end,

Even a slight ailment, swift as a flash of light—

Even Mount Sumeru must be destroyed.

The throne of a king is truly lofty and noble,

Yet the foolish, in their love of passion,

When sorrow and loss and death arrive,

Find grief and suffering like robbers and bandits.

Acting as king, seated on high,

His name heard throughout the four quarters,

Upright and lovable both,

Adorning his person with every kind of beauty—

Yet like one newly dead,

Decked with flowers and strings of jewels,

This life knows not the hour of its end;

And the throne of a king is likewise so.

Acting as king is like being a bird,

Ever in fear and terror,

In going, standing, lying, and sitting,

And even in all times.

Toward those close and kindred to him

He yet harbors a mind of suspicion—

Ministers, subjects, palace consorts and queens,

Elephants, horses, and precious things,

The possessions of the realm—

All these belong to the king;

But when the kings pass away,

All are abandoned, none carried along.

Kings of men and kings of gods,

Together with the asura kings,

Whose might harms the people,

With knife and axe they slay—

Not understanding suffering and impermanence,

They increase the affliction of greed and folly.

Like a beautiful forest of flowers

In which a golden serpent lies coiled within,

The fool, mistaking it for a precious thing,

Cuts it loose and carries it home;

The serpent, awakened, spews forth its venomous fire

And burns down the whole house and dwelling.

The throne of a king is like a forest flower,

Its peril of burning like the golden serpent;

The fool deems it precious,

But the wise take no joy in it.

Just as a single piece of flesh

Set down at the four crossroads,

The wolves and jackals and vultures

Vie with one another, coming to seize and eat—

The throne of a king is likewise so:

Everyone strives hard to seize it.

The birds and beasts use beak and claw,

Clawing and scratching to contend with one another;

Acting as king, men use the blade

To slay and kill, contending for the throne—

Again like those birds and fowl,

In their folly no different at all.

I would rather eat fired clay,

Fruit and leaves, to keep myself alive.

This body is like a festering boil:

Once eaten, it again breaks apart and dissolves.

Why, then, for its sake

Should one create all manner of evil deeds?

Like eating a single mango,

Its fragrance and flavor wholly complete—

When that fruit is consumed,

The body forthwith rots utterly away.

The throne of a king is like that fruit:

Once lost and gone, it gives birth to suffering and affliction.

Just as in some place

A plague disaster breeds sickness and disease,

One who in wisdom surpasses others,

Suspecting it, straightway departs and keeps far away.

If one does not depart and keep far away,

It is like holding fire against the wind:

Not casting it aside, one burns oneself.

Like one who, thirsting, drinks salt water,

Never able to be satisfied;

Like rākṣasas filling

The city walls and one's kinsfolk—

Because they are born of desire,

They are lost and gone, with nothing remaining.

Again, like a king wishing to surpass,

With brethren a full hundred in number,

Because desire was made the cause,

They were all in turn vanquished and destroyed.

Just like King Pāṇḍu

And Dhṛtarāṣṭra—

Even so those kings,

Lost their thrones likewise because of desire.

"Therefore know that the lands of the realm are like being caught in a net, again like a single hanging thread, like filthy mire, again like the dashing of waves, again like the waves of the sea, like a forest set ablaze, again like a dangerous and perilous abyss, like the hells. Whoever is a person of wisdom—to delight and cling to them is the greatest of sufferings. Whoever is a person of wisdom yet gives rise to the perception of pleasure, as does this Great King, is truly terrifying, so mistaken in this way, so frenzied and deluded in this way—just like taking the hand of a madman and striking a young child, the sickness and disease never ceasing.

Like an illusory transformation, the five desires are mad and frenzied, again like this—just like an ape on a high mountain who, seeing the clouds covering it over, supposes them to be a solid place, thinking it to be firm ground, and forthwith leaps and hurls his body down a full hundred fathoms, only bringing suffering upon his body and life. All collapse into ruin and death.

"Again, like a jackal that sees the fruit of the kapittha tree and supposes this fruit to be like flesh when it falls to the ground, and then picks it up to eat. Realizing it is not flesh, it then thinks again: 'This is not flesh, so up in that tree there must surely be flesh,' and so grasps after it—just like the misery of the five desires that makes the king mad and frenzied, again exactly like this. Again, like a foolish young child greedy for the flavor of a round sweet; so when someone rolls mud into a ball, the child supposes it to be a sweet, but in truth it is nothing real, and chasing after it in bitter toil, he obtains only a ball of mud.

Again, like one parched and burning in scorching heat, thirsting—the foolish one is like this. Again, like the many people who stand before an illusory transformation and are able to see many different kinds; but if the illusion dissolves, the colors and forms forthwith vanish. Again, like the painted figures and contrivances of a master illusionist.

Like a dog that barks at its own image at the mouth of a well, glaring with its eyes and biting at its tail—that is, it sees its murky reflection at the bottom of the well and then howls aloud and gives rise to anger and hatred, and then hurls its head down into the well and dies.

"Great King! For the sake of what is good, contemplate. Why should the five desires endure forever?

Why should the throne of a king endure long? Fame, prestige, and authority—these too will in the end have nothing remaining. How can the borders of a nation not be shifted and changed?

How can precious things not be lost? How can the joys of desire remain eternal and unchanging? Once this suffering is received, one must in turn receive grief and sorrow continually.

How can there be a meeting without a parting? All five desires—their very nature is truly suffering. All are born from deluded imagination, and one takes them to be joy.

How are the formations not like the plantain tree of the city of the gandharvas? Great King, why, amid birth, old age, sickness, death, grief, sorrow, dread, and oppression—why, for a nation of little joy, do you give rise to attached delight? Like a deer in the forest with fire blazing on all four sides, like a bird caught in a snare, like a fish caught in a net, like a turtle caught on a hook, like a lion with a poisoned arrow piercing its heart, like a dragon weeping and wailing, like one in a room beset by fire on all four sides, like one in a place of peril where the wood and flowers are rotten, then giving rise to sickness and disease, like a pond of beautiful flowers where a rākṣasa devours men alive.

Then again he spoke in verse, saying:

The worry of birth, old age, sickness, and death—

Within it one is not yet liberated.

Ignorance and craving, the poisoned arrows—

If one has not yet been able to come forth,

Then how is it, O man, O king,

That you give rise to joy, attachment, and perception?

Like an elephant within the forest

With a great fire on all four sides,

Fleeing away from this very place—

How could there be any joy?

Great King, you should clearly understand:

Though your station be lofty as Mount Sumeru,

The person of wisdom, contemplating deeply,

Wishes for nothing in this matter,

But gives rise to careful reflection.

How does one who wishes to be freed,

Truly a slave to craving,

Yet reckon himself noble and exalted?

Casting away precious wealth,

He yet gives rise to the perception of riches;

By unwholesome use of means

He gives rise to the perception of wisdom;

For the multitude he gives rise to affliction,

Yet gives rise to the perception of being without sickness;

Not yet freed from the human lot,

Let him not give rise to the perception of being without fear;

In the cutting forest of the twelve,

Let him not give rise to the perception of not departing;

Desire forthwith goads on the faculties,

And again gives rise to having robbers.

"Great King, you should know that when this body, on some day, must surely fall into ruin and decay—what is there in it to incline toward, to cherish and cling to?—there must surely be a day of grief and suffering over its ruin and destruction. Wealth, possessions, and carriages must surely also have a day of being scattered and lost.

"Great King! As the Buddha taught: 'A lofty station is like a dream; love and affection arise of a sudden; and those who dwell among the five desires give rise to the rare notion, deeming them hard to encounter. But the worthy and virtuous, toward this matter, do not act for the sake of that renown, and so they have ever contemplated it.' Why is this?

Because rank and station, love and affection, must inevitably have their separation—like birds that at evening fly back to roost together in one tree, but by early morning have scattered in the four directions. Again it is like a lodging house: at evening the guests arrive, but by the next morning they go their separate ways. Again it is like boarding a boat or ferry that carries many different people: when it reaches the shore, each goes his own way along his own road.

Again it is like driftwood floating here and there, gathered together into a great pile of timber heaped high as Mount Sumeru, but which again is scattered thin. Again it is like the drifting clouds, and that Mount Sumeru too disperses and is ruined. Where music is made, men and women gather to make merry to the sound of the music, but afterward the company breaks up, each one dispersing of itself.

The palace ladies and beautiful women, upright and fair—yet they too must meet with impermanence; and so, having met, they again depart. It is like the flowers on a tree where bees swarm and make their hive; but when the flowers have all fallen, the bees again fly far away. It is like that pond where, when the flowers wither and dry, the oxen and elephants no longer enter.

Like a great lake full of water where cranes delight to dwell and sing and dance; but once it dries up, they then fly far away. When the merit of a household is exhausted, then renown and gain are no more. It is like dark clouds gathering and enclosing, thunder and lightning rising up; like the wind that blows the clouds away, so that this lightning no longer exists.

If the one does not abandon you, then you too must abandon the other. Like the summer passing away, when the feathered wings of the sparrow must all shed their feathers. Like the cold of winter, when the wild goose comes to dwell, and then again flies far away.

Like the aśoka tree: when flowers and leaves fill its branches, then everyone makes merry and delights in it; but when it has withered and dried, when it has no flowers, then no one so much as glances at it. Again like the canopies of flowers: those who cherish them love and prize them; but when the flowers have wilted, they are again cast aside. Therefore he spoke in verse, saying:

Impermanent, not firm or solid,

Like the plantain tree that is not real,

Just like those drifting clouds—

The Heavenly King's station, supreme and highest,

Its peril and harm are likewise so.

O man, O king, you should clearly understand:

Coveting gain to excess, keep far away.

Like a trickle of water in a cave,

Cherished and delighted in, yet also despised,

Changing like a spinning pinwheel—

The foolish are tainted by the place of desire,

And, not understanding, must fall into degradation."

The Venerable One said: "Great King! Now, for the king's sake, I shall set forth in brief a simile concerning these matters of birth-and-death, of greedy attachment and delusion. Let the king listen with his whole mind.

'There was a man traveling along the road who met a fierce elephant. Seeing the elephant, he hastily fled, and the elephant, furious, chased him down into a pit. Seeing nowhere he could rely upon for shelter, he then caught sight of the mouth of a well, and so found the root of a tree.

Once he had gone down into the well, he saw two mice, one black and one white, gnawing with their teeth at that tree root. All around the four walls of the well there were also four venomous serpents wishing to swallow this man whole, while below at the bottom of the well there was also a venomous dragon. At his sides he feared the four serpents; below he feared the venomous dragon; and so he clung fast to the tree root, but this tree shook and swayed, and from high up in the tree the bees dropped three drops of honey straight into his mouth.

At that moment, if the tree should be shaken and made to fall, the bees would fly off elsewhere. Their venom would harm this man. The forest was also ablaze, the fire gradually spreading to burn up this tree.

Great King, you should clearly understand! How great the suffering and affliction of that man—it could not be told to the full!'"

The king, hearing this, was sorrowful and worried about these vile and wretched matters, and so he said: "That man enjoyed truly little of the sweet flavor, yet his suffering was far too great. The one who enjoys that flavor is like an ox's hoofprint of water, while the suffering is like the great ocean. That sweet flavor is like a mustard seed, while the suffering is like Mount Sumeru. That flavor is like fire that heats, while the suffering is like the sun and moon burning, like this hollow lotus root set against the vast and boundless void. Again like a tiny mosquito compared with the great garuḍa bird. This flavor and this affliction, in their measure great and small, are also just like this."

The Venerable One said: "Great King! That vastness is a metaphor for birth-and-death. That man is a metaphor for the foolish ordinary worldlings.

That elephant is a metaphor for impermanence. That mouth of the well is a metaphor for the human body. That root of the tree is a metaphor for the human life span.

Those mice, black and white, are a metaphor for day and night. The root being severed represents the thought-moments ever perishing and passing away. Those four venomous serpents are a metaphor for the Four Great Elements.

That honey is a metaphor for the five desires. Those bees represent the evil sense faculties. That forest fire that burns is a metaphor for old age.

The venomous dragon below the well is a metaphor for death. Therefore one must know: the sweet flavor is truly little, but the suffering is far too much. Birth, old age, sickness, and death—toward all people.

Wishing to gain sovereign ease, the people of the world must suffer in body and mind, having nowhere to rely upon. These sufferings oppress them. It is clear as lightning; therefore one must be sorrowful and grieved, and ought not greedily cling.

"Great King! Now I exhort the king—my words, though coarse and clumsy, are truly of benefit."

When the king had heard these words, his garments and the hairs of his body all stood on end; joy and sorrow were intermingled, his tears flowing down in streams. He then rose and joined his palms, and with his five limbs touching the ground, addressed the Venerable One, saying:

"I am a foolish and ignorant child, having no wisdom; I am a base felon who has uttered mad and frenzied words, and for that madness I now repent."

The Venerable One replied:

"For me now, in patience to have left the household life, there is nothing that I cannot patiently bear and accept. My mind has already become pure, like the autumn moon with no clouds to dim and obscure it. The king now repents, and I pray that the Great King may, like Śakra, king of the gods, come to behold the footprints of the Way."

The king, greatly rejoicing, together with his kinsfolk made obeisance, and then withdrew and returned to his palace.

The Sutra in which Piṇḍola Bhāradvāja Expounds the Dharma for King Udayana

The End