賓頭盧突羅闍為優陀延王說法經

The flavors one wishes to taste are truly few, while the sorrows, sufferings, conflicts, and fears are truly many. One who is wise should have faith in skillful means, distance oneself from the objects of craving and desire, and diligently practice the pure conduct. Thus have I heard of old: There was a heavenly son of heavenly blessings named Udayana, who invited his own father in order to be enthroned as king in the city of Kauśāmbī.

This city was exceedingly beautiful, spacious, dignified, pure, and clean; its palaces were resplendent and pleasing to the eye, their adornments truly delightful to behold; doors and walls connected with one another, joined together like a net, and houses, towers, and pavilions by the tens of thousands were all built within this city. The streets and markets were likewise comparable. The fields and gardens were orderly, the marketplaces flourishing and prosperous.

There were many precious treasures. The perimeter of this city was encircled by beautiful groves and gardens. The trees were luxuriant, fruits and flowers filled the branches, the spring waters were crystal clear, and within them were many lotus flowers of every color—blue, yellow, red, and white.

Their colors blended harmoniously, and there were many birds such as doves, sparrows, and parrots, together with the Kalaviṅka and other kinds of birds, all lifting their voices to sing in harmony with one another, like a concert of music played in unison, dignified and magnificent, just like Mount Kiṃbila, king of mountains, which reveres the mountain forests and thereby adorns itself. There was also a statue of Śakra (Indra) erected at that teacher's place for all the people to behold.

King Udayana was upright and handsome in appearance, possessed of a majestic and dignified bearing, intelligent and sharp-witted, of incomparable valor and bravery, accomplished in both martial and refined arts, such that there was no one who did not know of him. He was also able to tame elephants, causing the elephants to gather together. He could ride upon them.

All of them he was able to subdue. He was also skilled in music and song, his voice harmonious and gentle, the notes all in tune; and when he played, the birds and beasts would leap and dance. The various fragrances came wafting from afar, which he used to subdue enemy armies, to drive away malign influences, and to make them submit.

He was also able to carve and paint beautiful images. There were also statues just like the real things, no different. He was thoroughly versed in all sixty-two professions, and as for clothing, food, and drink, there was no kind in which he was not well-versed.

He even revered his elders and gave heed to the common people, governing the nation with the right Dharma, day and night forgetting his weariness. All ceremonies, rites, and laws he based upon the ancient statutes, perfectly complete in ten parts like the kings of former ages; the people were rich and the nation strong, the storehouses filled with grain, and people of merit and virtue all dwelt together in this country.

They received the king's instruction and transformation; some were able to do good, were broadly versed in the scriptures, and clearly explained the reasonings of the worldly classics, there being none they had not refined and mastered. So mighty and majestically valiant was he that even Rāmāyaṇa Arjuna could hardly be compared to him. It was because the former king had deeply planted roots of goodness before a Pratyekabuddha that he obtained such blessings and rewards.

The king's majestic virtue made even neighboring nations bow in respect; the light of the Way suffused all around, and his renown spread throughout the world.

At that time there was the son of a great minister named Piṇḍola Bhāradvāja, of outstanding bearing and demeanor rarely found in the world, intelligent and wise, broadly learned and widely versed, kind and benevolent, possessed of the resolve to rescue all kinds of beings from suffering; therefore he exhorted and converted the people of the nation to cultivate the Ten Wholesome Deeds and to place their faith in the Three Jewels.

He left the household life to study the Way, attained the perfect and complete fruit, and then traveled here and there teaching and converting, and returned to the city of Kauśāmbī to liberate his kinsfolk, going forth to beg for alms. After he had finished begging, beneath the foot of a tree, he sat in the lotus posture, contemplating and entering meditative concentration. At that time there was a man who recognized Piṇḍola well and so returned to inform the king clearly, saying that this was the son of the great minister of former times, named Piṇḍola; and that he was now nearby, seated beneath the foot of a tree in the forest.

The king, hearing this, was greatly delighted, his mind thirsting with reverence and admiration; he then ordered a carriage to be brought and, together with the palace people and his retinue, went to welcome the Venerable One. When he had inquired after him, 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 would ask you—do you clearly know something of the ancient affairs of your ancestors, who for generations served as great ministers, intelligent and penetrating in wisdom, often serving as royal preceptors of the nation? But now, meeting you, I would rather ask about those doubts of mine; please do not be displeased, but explain them for my sake—might this be possible?"

The Venerable One then replied: "I beg to follow your questions, and I shall, for the king's sake, discriminate and explain them." The king then asked in verse, saying:

The Venerable One replied:

"I contemplate the causes and conditions—all are impermanent. Therefore I left the household life, severed the bonds of love and affection, and delight in the forest trees, like a young fawn, single-mindedly cultivating, far removed from the afflictions. Using wisdom as an axe to chop and fell the branches and leaves of the tree of craving and desire, the mind clings to nothing, and so the poisonous fruit is destroyed. The fetters that flow across the river of birth and death—I have already crossed beyond them, and so there is no longer any sorrow or worry, like a bird or beast escaping from the spread net, far removed from fabricated things. Therefore it is called the fruit of liberation."

The king, having heard these words, then said to Piṇḍola:

"Now I have the power to subdue all the nations, and my majestic virtue is matched by none. If, on some fine and pleasant day, with the royal crown upon my head, garlands of jewels covering my body, and palace women attending behind me, I am just like Śakra, king of the heavens—you now dwell alone by yourself, with no desires such as mine. Is that so?"

The Venerable One answered: "My mind has no such desire."

The king again asked: "Why is it that, having what I have, you yet have no desire for it?"

The Venerable One replied: "I now, with regard to those desires, am like filth that has already dried up. The various existences were bound tight, but now I have attained liberation; even were Śakra together with those beautiful celestial maidens to come, still they could not arouse desire in me—how much less the human realm, defiled and filthy as it is! Whoever is a person of wisdom must depart from those māras, resolve to cross beyond the shore of birth and death, and so attain the pure eye of wisdom, resolved that there be no longer any darkness of ignorance to harm them—how then could one cling longingly to a king's throne?

"Having gained clear eyes, how could one crave blindness? Having gained robust health, how could one crave the suffering of sickness? Having gained a place free of offense and crime, how could one crave to go into a prison? Having gained wealth, how could one crave poverty and destitution? Having gained a place of nobility and honor, how could one crave the position of a servant? Having gained wisdom, how could one crave foolishness and delusion? Having gained valor and strength, why ever would one crave a place of weakness?"

The king, having heard this, his mind bearing many afflictions, said: "According to your words and similes, then am I in such a tragic plight of misery as well?"

The Venerable One replied: "The king has no eye of wisdom; the afflictions make him sick. The four kinds of grasping cause him to drift and be exiled, cause him to lose his valor and strength, so that he cannot make energetic effort, like a foolish little child who does not understand the right path, drowning and sinking in the sea of suffering—and the king has his share within it. Living amid the five desires, he gives rise to imaginings, conceiving of as rare and hard-to-obtain what he conceives here—truly this is at odds with wholesome conduct."

The king again asked: "What is there that is so mistaken, that you speak of mistakenness so much?"

The Venerable One replied: "These five desires are the fundamental sufferings that harm sentient beings, that harm the roots of goodness as though cutting off the sprout of life, and that torment and harm sentient beings; they are like poisonous worms; again, they are like a blazing fire that can burn up all the meritorious virtues; again, they are also like the birds of the forest. They are like ordinary worldlings gone mad; again, they are like illusory conjurings, deluding, confusing, and casting into doubt; desire feigns friendliness yet is like a foe; desire is like an old ox not yet escaped from the filthy mire; desire is like being caught in a net, bound fast within the three realms.

Desire is like the edge of a sword, hard to ward off; desire is able to bind and to slay sentient beings. All wrongdoings arise from desire. As of old there was Vasu, who, on account of the conditions of desire, was bound by the asura Bali and cast into boiling water; the deva Bala destroyed the city of the asuras and then slaughtered the people there; and through the harm and torment, King Bali together with the eight Sunda kings and his hundred sons were all destroyed.

Vṛtra the asura harmed the thousand eyes of Rāma; the harming of the ten heads of the rākṣasa, and the rākṣasas numbering by the thousands of millions who were harmed by Rāvaṇa, had this as their cause. The kings Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Mārīca destroyed the clan of Damalā. King Kārtavīrya was slain on account of the brahmin Yamani-bala.

Vinipāta slew the kin of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. The five sons of Pāṇḍu slew eighteen koṭis of people. King Bṛhadanta-rāja-saṃgha together with his kinfolk.

King Gokula together with his kinfolk. King Mihira-daṇḍaka together with his kinsmen... These kings all came about through desire, and so they cut one another down and destroyed one another." Thereupon he spoke a verse, saying:

"Therefore know that the kingdom's lands are also like being caught in a net, again like a thread of silk, like filthy mire, again like the beating waves, again also like the ocean swells, like a forest set ablaze, again like a perilous abyss, just like the hells. Whoever is a person of wisdom—those who delight in and cling to such are great sufferings. Whoever is a person of wisdom yet gives rise to thoughts of joy like this Great King—truly it is frightful, to be so mistaken thus, to be so insanely deluded thus, just like taking the hand of a madman to strike a young child, with sickness and trouble never ceasing.

Like illusory conjuring, the five desires are insane delusion, and they too are likewise so. It is like a monkey or ape on a high mountain who, seeing the clouds covering it, supposes it to be a solid place and thinks it is firm ground, then hurls its body and leaps down a full hundred yards, only to bring suffering to its own body and life. All ends in collapse and death.

"Again, it is like a jackal that sees the Tinduka tree and supposes this fruit, when it falls to the ground, to be like meat, and so picks it up to eat. Realizing it is not meat, it then reconsiders, saying: 'Since this is not meat, then up in that tree there surely must be meat'—and so this grasping is just like the misery of the five desires that makes the king insanely deluded; it too is exactly likewise. Again, it is like a foolish little child who craves the flavor of a round candy; so when someone rolls mud into a ball, the child supposes it to be candy, though in truth it is nothing real, and runs after it to its great toil and misery, gaining only a ball of mud.

It is also like the scorching heat that burns and parches a foolish one. It is also like the many people who stand before an illusory conjuring and can see many different kinds of things. But if the illusion vanishes, the colors and images at once disappear.

It is also like painted figures and the contrivances of a master of conjuring. Like a dog barking at its own image in the mouth of a well, in anger glaring and biting at its own tail. That is to say, seeing the murky reflection at the bottom of the well, it then yells and shouts and gives rise to anger and hatred, then plunges its head down into the well and dies.

"O Great King! For the sake of what is good, observe well. How could the five desires be ever-lasting and abiding?

How could the king's throne be long and enduring? Fame, renown, majesty, and power in the end leave nothing remaining. How could the borders of a nation never be moved and altered?

How could precious treasures never be lost? How could desire and pleasure ever be permanent and unchanging? When that suffering is once received, one must then receive in succession the unbroken affairs of sorrow and grief.

How could there be meeting without there being separation? All the five desires—their very nature is truly suffering. All arise from false imaginings, yet are taken to be joy.

How are all the formations not like the plantain tree of the city of the gandharvas? Why, O Great King, do you dwell amid birth, old age, sickness, death, sorrow, grief, fear, and oppression? Why, for the sake of a nation with little joy, do you give rise to love and delight?

Like a deer in a forest hemmed in on all four sides by fire, 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 a person in a room surrounded on all four sides by fire. Like being in a perilous place upon rotten flowers and decayed wood, then giving rise to sickness and disease.

Like a beautiful flower-pond with a rākṣasa devouring people alive." Then again he spoke a verse, saying:

"The Great King ought to know that when this body, on some day or other, must surely be ruined and decayed, what is there to be relied upon, fondled, and clung to with love? There must surely come a day of sorrow and suffering over its ruin and destruction. Wealth and carriages too must surely have a day when they are scattered and lost.

"O Great King! According to what the Buddha taught: 'A lofty throne is like a dream; love and affection suddenly exist, and people, amid the five desires, give rise to a sense of the rare, deeming them hard to encounter; but the worthy and virtuous, with regard to this matter, do not act for the sake of that renown, and so have constantly observed it.' Why is this so? Because position and love and affection inevitably have their parting, like birds that at night fly back to roost together on a single tree, but by early morning have already scattered in the four directions.

It is also like a wayside inn where guests arrive at night, but in the morning depart again by different roads. It is also like boarding a boat or ferry that carries many different people; when they reach the shore, each goes his own way. Again, it is also like driftwood floating here and there, gathered together into a pile of timber, heaped high as Mount Sumeru; but then again it is scattered and thinned apart.

It is also like the flying clouds, and that Mount Sumeru too is dissolved and ruined. At a place where music is made, men and women gather to make merry to the sound of the music, but afterward the assembly too breaks up, each one dispersing on his own. Palace people and beautiful women, upright and lovely; yet they too must meet with the principle of impermanence, and so, having met, they part again.

It is like flowers upon a tree where bees have built their hive; but when the flowers have all fallen, the bees fly far away again. Like a pond where the flowers have withered and dried, into which oxen and elephants no longer enter. Like a great lake brimming with water, where cranes delight to dwell and sing and dance; but once it has dried up, they fly far away again.

When the blessings of a single household are exhausted, then fame and gain are no more. It is also like black clouds spreading round about, thunder and lightning arising; like the wind blowing the clouds, and that lightning no longer exists. If they do not abandon you, then you too must abandon them.

Like the summer passing away, when the feathers and wings of the sparrows must all molt away. Like the cold of winter, when the wild geese come to dwell, then fly far away again. Like the Aśoka tree—when flowers and leaves fill its branches, then people delight to make merry there; but when it has withered and dried, when there are no flowers, then people pay it no heed at all.

It is also like blossoming branches—those who love them treasure them dearly; but when the flowers have withered, they cast them away again." So then he spoke a verse, saying:

The Venerable One said: "O Great King! Now, for the king's sake, I shall briefly speak a parable about the affairs of birth and death, of craving, clinging, and delusion. May the king listen single-mindedly.

"There was a man walking along the road who met a fierce elephant; seeing the elephant, he hurriedly fled, and the elephant, fiercely enraged, chased after him down into a pit; finding no place to take refuge, he then saw the mouth of a well, and so came upon a tree root. Once inside the well, he saw two rats, one black and one white, gnawing with their teeth at that tree root. Around the four sides of the well there were also four poisonous serpents that wished to swallow this man whole, and at the bottom of the well there was also a poisonous dragon.

At his flanks he feared the four serpents; below him he feared the poisonous dragon, and so he clung fast to the tree root; but this tree shook and trembled, and from high up in the tree the bees let three drops of honey fall right into his mouth. At that moment, if the tree were shaken and made to fall, the bees would fly off elsewhere, and their venom would harm this man. The forest, moreover, caught fire, gradually spreading to burn this tree.

The Great King ought to understand! How great must that man's suffering and torment have been—it cannot be told in full!"

The king, hearing this, was grieved and worried about these wretched and evil affairs, and so said: "That man enjoyed truly little sweetness, while his suffering was far too great. The one who enjoyed that flavor was like a footprint of an ox under the water, while his suffering was like the great ocean. That sweetness was like a mustard seed, while his suffering was like Mount Sumeru. That flavor was like a flame's heat, while his suffering was like the sun and moon blazing—like this hollow lotus root compared to the vast emptiness of space. Again, like a tiny mosquito compared to the great garuḍa bird. The flavor and the suffering, the more and the less, are likewise so."

The Venerable One said: "O Great King! That vast immensity is a metaphor for birth and death. That man is a metaphor for the ordinary worldlings.

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

Those black and white rats are a metaphor for day and night. The root being severed symbolizes that thought after thought is constantly perishing. Those four poisonous serpents are a metaphor for the Four Great Elements.

That honey is a metaphor for the five desires. Those bees symbolize the evil sense-faculties. The forest fire's burning is a metaphor for old age.

The poisonous dragon beneath the well is a metaphor for death. Therefore one ought to know: the sweet flavor is truly little, but the suffering is far too great. Birth, old age, sickness, and death—toward all people.

Wishing to be at ease, the people of the world must suffer in body and mind, with no place of refuge. These sufferings oppress them. Clear as lightning—therefore one ought to be worried and grieved, and ought not to crave and cling.

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

The king, having heard these words, his robes and the hairs of his body all standing on end, joy and sorrow mingled together, tears streaming down, then rose and joined his palms, and with his five limbs touching the ground, addressed the Venerable One, saying:

"I am a foolish, childish one, having no wisdom; I am a base thief who has spoken insane words, and for that insanity I now repent."

The Venerable One replied:

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

The king was greatly delighted, and together with his retinue paid his respects, then withdrew and returned to the palace.

The Sūtra in which Piṇḍola Bhāradvāja Expounded the Dharma for the Sake of King Udayana

The End