辟支佛因緣論

The story of the Great Elder of Rājagṛha awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of King Candrodaya of Vārāṇasī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of King Mahādeva of Kauśāmbī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of the King of Kauśāmbī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of King Senāpati of Vārāṇasī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

The story of the youngest son of a Cakravartin (Wheel-Turning King) awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

Just as within a dense forest

One wishes to draw out a great tree,

But the branches form an obstruction,

And the hope of drawing it out can hardly be fulfilled.

The householder is like a forest tree,

His affairs are like the branches and leaves.

Though he wishes to seek a way out,

The bonds will by no means release him.

In the pure realm of the solitary forest,

Contemplating conditions, cultivating this mind,

He is liberated from all external conditions,

Departing from all the places of beloved attachment.

He cultivates solely the single practice,

Like the Rhinoceros, having no second.

The masters of old passed it down one to another,

And I have come to hear of this matter.

In times past there was a Pratyekabuddha who, in the five past lives before the previous Buddhas, often cultivated the wholesome dharmas. Because he was attached to delight with an Upāsikā at home, although he saw the Buddhas, he did not seek to go forth into homelessness. Nevertheless, he was able to concentrate his mind upon keeping the precepts of the householder, never violating them, and his wholesome roots gradually increased.

At the time of Kāśyapa Buddha he first went forth to study the Way, delighting in the practice of the dhūta austerities, fully accomplished 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 life span there was exhausted, he was reborn in the household of a Great Elder in the city of Rājagṛha.

The wealth of this Elder was immeasurable, his granaries and storehouses overflowing, and each day he prospered all the more. After his father died, he amused himself as he pleased, like Vaiśravaṇa's son Naḍakūbara. Within this household he sported and delighted to his heart's content, and begot some thirty children.

His granaries of grain increased day by day, and his menfolk and womenfolk, wives and husbands, also multiplied. He concerned himself only with making a livelihood and forgot the cultivation of study. Bound by the many external conditions, he did not abandon his family enterprise, and he often heard of deaths among his kinfolk.

There was one household that met with a death and lost its livelihood. The more he heard such unhappy tidings, the more he sorrowed and suffered affliction, as though a hundred arrows had pierced his heart. He also heard of pleasant and agreeable matters of good fortune.

In the household of a certain guest there was much precious wealth, brought home in peace and security. This son begot a son, and that daughter gave birth to a blessed child. From this he rejoiced; hearing of profitable matters, his joys and sorrows mingled together.

As if to create an occasion of joy, he mounted a carriage and together with his friends went to a certain garden. Strolling about, he came to view a certain forest of trees, where he saw a man felling a great tree. Its branches and leaves were truly luxuriant, and though many elephants were employed, they could not uproot it.

When a small tree without branches was cut, a single man alone could carry it out of the forest without any obstruction. Having seen this, he reflected within himself and spoke these words: "I have a karmic affinity with this man." And so he uttered this verse:

I see the felling of a great tree,

Its branches and leaves truly many,

The dense forest like interlocking links,

So it cannot be carried out.

The world is also just like this:

Men and women together with their kinfolk,

Love and hatred binding the mind fast,

The matter of birth-and-death is like the forest,

From which one cannot attain liberation.

The small tree has no branches;

In the old-growth forest there is nothing to fear.

Contemplating that, I have awakened,

Severing the realm of love and affection.

In the old-growth forest of birth-and-death,

Of itself one attains liberation.

Then and there in that very place he realized the fruit of a Pratyekabuddha. His close friend then said: "The sun has gone down; let us return home." He answered his friend: "You yourself return home; I shall turn toward my home, and for this reason it shall bring about my severance." His good friend asked him again: "Severance—how is that?" He answered: "From of old, because of my attachment of craving to that household, now I sever this karma of craving.

People, because of their attachment of love to wives, children, and kinfolk—children, grandchildren—are arrogant in their affection. If a father is seen, the words heard never cease, and one flees in pursuit of conditions. Because of clinging to these matters, attachment of craving arises.

I, with regard to wife and children and kinfolk, am likewise in this manner, and my mind of craving has resolved to cease. When I was at home conducting trade, going out and coming in, I would often speak to others, telling some to take this, telling some what should be done, telling some what should not be done. Matters such as these I now sever; I cast off the pleasures of desire and attain the joy of liberation.

I cut the root of the tree of craving, close the various gates, diminish the dark obstructions. I differ now from the petty children; I am angry at the household and have nothing else. Acting thus, how could I possibly return home again?"

At that time the close friend returned home and conveyed those words to the children. When the menfolk and womenfolk, old and young, heard of this, they all came to see for themselves. When the kinfolk arrived, they saw the father already clad in the dharma robes of a Śramaṇa and flying up into empty space.

The children said: "Why now do you grow weary of your kinfolk?" Up in the air he then uttered the verse as above. Then he answered his sons and daughters. After speaking the verse, he flew up into empty space, went to the Snow Mountains, and gathered together with the other Pratyekabuddhas; when he returned he realized the Way in the garden and cast off his body into Nirvāṇa.

The kinfolk then built a stūpa shrine. Because of this, some called it the stūpa, on account of the many children. As for those who possessed fully accomplished wholesome roots and those of slight karmic affinity, they too at once attained awakening.

The story of King Candrodaya of Vārāṇasī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

Wealth, wife and children, and friends,

In birth-and-death amid anxious care—

The solitary forest, at peace, brings liberation,

Like the Rhinoceros with a single horn.

From the good ones it passed to where I heard it,

Transmitted down to my own master,

And I too heard it from my master,

Now I expound it here once more.

In times past there was a Pratyekabuddha who, at the time of Kāśyapa Buddha, lived to eleven thousand years, cultivating the practice of purity. He constantly cultivated patient forbearance and was compassionate toward all sentient beings. Even the minor precepts he never once 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 and was born in the land of Vārāṇasī, born within the royal palace. When he was born the moon rose, so he was named Candrodaya (Moon-Rise). Then gradually he grew to maturity and was established as Crown Prince.

When the king passed away, he succeeded to the kingship. Using the wholesome power of his former lives, he governed the realm by the true Dharma. He appointed the son of his chief minister to receive a small territory and took a wife for him.

This son of the chief minister was mighty and peerless, had many kinfolk, and was haughty and arrogant beyond measure. At that time the son of the king and the son of the chief minister married sisters, and thereby became kin. On account of this they grew close, feasting together, and they had a scheme and a plot.

He said to the Prince: "Indeed your uncle has too many brothers and kinfolk, and people of the world commonly trust the words of women, so in a single morning he could overthrow your royal father. Then those mothers who are wont to flatter and fawn will use these very children to remove your father's kingship and shift it to themselves, and it will by no means come to you sons." The king was arrogant and had not yet perceived the scheme.

Now the kingship is what the whole world reveres; it is a place of utmost bliss, no different from the heavenly realm. All people of the world cannot but trust and submit to it. If a sovereign of the realm governs the country by the Dharma, then after his life ends he will surely be reborn in the heavens.

It is just as all delicious morsels of meat are alike. The kingship too is likewise: there is no one who does not covet it. And so he uttered this verse:

Just as when the waters have not yet come,

Suspicious of doubt, one builds a bridge—

If the mighty waters come flooding down,

There can then be no place for doubt.

The kingship is also just like this:

Where there is doubt, remove it beforehand;

If you grasp and hold it in your own hand,

Then you can be at peace of yourself.

Brothers will then become jealous and envious;

Afterward to seek intimacy is not easy.

The Prince pondered and said:

If kinfolk such as these

Wish to do me harm,

It is like charcoal that already holds fire:

In the present there is no joy,

And in the life to come there is yet more suffering.

At that time the Prince, having fully carried out the above, came and reported it to his royal father. When the king heard what the Prince said, he flew into a rage, and his two eyes were red as copper. The king then issued a command: "Be silent!

You should flee from this place." Just at that time the Prince heard that the son of the chief minister had arrived, and he went out to welcome him in. After they met and exchanged words with one another, he then returned to the king to report, saying: "The Prince is gravely ill indeed." When the king heard this, he came to look, and saw the Prince severely sick and stricken, his life hanging in peril. The four elements bringing the suffering of illness—having seen this, he reflected within himself: "Even this kingship is itself a thing most base and wretched, and yet the father and son of that old chief minister have plotted to teach my son to seek rebellion, wishing to do an unrighteous deed.

But my kingship—they shall not obtain it. My son now lies sick and suffering, and all people of the world likewise give rise to greed, jealousy, and envy. By this matter I clearly know that the kingship is itself a base and wretched thing.

Why, being so base and wretched, should I not cast off the kingship to do wholesome deeds? It is by this very kingship that one harms one's father and grandfather. It is also on account of brothers that one comes to do exceedingly evil deeds, casting off all shame, able to give oneself over to license.

Merely for the sake of slight joy, it brings suffering for the life to come." And so he uttered this verse:

As a moth flying into the fire,

So is greed for the realm—the blind are likewise.

Coveting amid gain and loss,

Doing this or not doing it,

Sinking the waters down into the mire of mud,

One cannot attain a place of peace.

Having reflected thus,

His body performed pure deeds.

Clearly perceiving the mind's detachment,

He then attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

There is also an account that says: This king, having seen his son and been enraged, then returned to his palace. Then there was a king of an allied country who, because of bandits, came seeking aid. When this king heard of this matter, he sought out troops and generals to go and rescue that king. When they reached that country, the two sides joined battle, slaughtering one another, until even women bearing children and little children alike were all killed. The king saw this matter and held that it was because of the kingship itself, and so he grew weary of it and uttered this verse:

Coveting the realm for slight joy,

One is submerged in filthy mire.

The mind of anger grows ever greater,

Stirring up war and giving rise to disputes.

For the sake of greed for wealth they kill one another,

And slay one another all the more.

Not seeking the matter of liberation,

It utterly destroys itself in the kingship.

As within a great kindled fire,

The moth flies in to its death—

Surfeited and disgusted with the matter of life-and-death,

The place where delusion and confusion are produced.

That joy will create karma;

In return it brings only suffering.

Just as upon yonder mountain peak

There is a swarm of bees:

The fool, coveting a little honey,

Does not perceive where suffering lies.

Reflecting thus within himself,

He then attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

He then said to his son: "Do not employ the words of evil people; you may not go against my will. If you govern the country, you must follow the true Dharma. I now, like this country, am all entrusted 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 were all distressed and sorrowfully wept, shedding tears. Joining their palms, they said to the king: "We do not know—to what place does the Great King wish to go?" At that time the royal father flew up bodily into empty space, and upon the sun at the mountain peak he uttered the verse as above.

Clad in the robes of a Śramaṇa, he performed the eighteen kinds of spiritual transformations. When the people of the realm saw this, there was none who did not rejoice. Just as a keeper of horses, seeing them run astray, must set them right again, so the wise must also be likewise: seeing others undergo suffering, their own minds are at once attuned to harmony.

The story of King Mahādeva of Kauśāmbī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

Father and mother, wife and children,

Clothing and food together with wealth and goods—

The wise observe them deeply,

And regard them as a wayside inn.

Casting aside these cravings of love,

He walks alone like the Rhinoceros.

I of old, from a Teacher,

Received and heard this matter transmitted.

From the time of Kāśyapa Buddha he was already a Bhikṣu, of keen and bright wisdom, gentle, harmonious, and patient. Each day he would constantly contemplate the dharmas as to their true essential nature. That is, he contemplated the aggregates as suffering, empty, impermanent, and without self.

Like a plantain tree while still young, like an illusion, like a dream, like water, like foam—he was able well to observe and thus to cultivate his own mind. When his life came to an end he was reborn in the heavens. When his life span in the heavenly realm was exhausted, he descended and was born in the city of Kauśāmbī as the son of the king, named Mahādeva.

When this king passed away, he inherited the royal enterprise and continued to be styled sovereign. Like those early wholesome kings, he cultivated the precepts and practices and governed the realm by the true Dharma. At that time within the city there was an Elder of immeasurable wealth who was on intimate and close terms with King Mahādeva.

That Great Elder's body fell sick with illness. When the king heard of his sickness, he himself came to visit, and seeing the Elder's condition and his haggard countenance, the king's mind was not glad, and he bowed his head in grief. At that time that Elder took an alms-bowl entirely filled with gold and offered it as a gift to the king.

The king said to the Elder: "Is your sickness most painful, is it not?" The Elder answered: "I pray the king will strive to hear what I say:

My house is truly rich,

Like Vaiśravaṇa.

Pleasing words and possessions,

And friends in many places,

Wife, children, and kinfolk,

Servants and underlings—

I am fully provided with them all.

I have met with a place truly rich and noble,

Yet now the time of death has come,

And none is a friend to me."

The king then came to console him:

"These words are truly true.

Your children and your kin,

Your wealth and your treasure-stores,

Together with that strength of yours,

Elephants, horses, and soldiers—

Although you have such things as these,

Yet none can save you.

We, your kinfolk,

Seeing you meet with suffering and calamity,

Then offer words of consolation,

And out of sorrow shed tears.

But for the one whose life is about to be lost,

We cannot bring rescue or aid.

Only you yourself rely upon yourself,

Because of the merit you made before."

When the king saw the sickness,

His mind was like those who practice meditation.

Deeply awakening to all sufferings and calamities,

Which sentient beings are certain to meet:

All who are born

Will all alike fall sick.

Sickness commonly harms human beings,

Having no mind of pity or compassion.

All people of the world

Are certain to enter the road of death;

None is born who is set apart from it.

"These ones—my wife and children,

Those who are intimate and close with me,

This is my wealth and property,

They draw near beside me,

These are my friends and my company."

The mind, because of delusion, is therefore sick.

Pondering in such confusion,

The great calamity is right before the eyes,

Yet the foolish and blind do not see it.

When the kinfolk have come,

They cannot rescue from calamity.

Here, reflecting carefully,

He then attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

The intimates and the inner and outer kinfolk of the king, seeing that the king had attained the Way and departed far from worldly affairs—because indeed the separation from loved ones is a fire that burns and scorches, giving rise to a place of anguish and affliction—at that time the body of that Pratyekabuddha flew up into empty space, performed the eighteen kinds of transformations, and spoke the verse as above.

There is also a teaching that says: This king, while still a Prince, when he entered a garden, saw blind people who were often given aid. When they heard the Prince had appeared, there would then be food and drink; so they gathered on both sides of the road, and because they could not see the road they fell into a deep pit—some were killed, some were wounded in the head, their hands and feet broken, their bodies bruised purple. At that time the Prince, seeing such sufferings, pondered with weariness and spoke these words: "This has caused me to awaken. These blind people too were once rich, and through indulgence and license they now suffer thus. Now that I have seen this matter, I must do good deeds and must not be indulgent and licentious." And so he uttered this verse:

Just as one burns a golden hairpin

And uses it as an adornment—

The golden hairpin, though precious,

When burned by fire, ends in peril—

The kingship is also just like this:

One must not give it over to license.

The blind have awakened me;

I have no doubt regarding myself.

The cause of it is the kingship itself,

The body is wont to give rise to arrogance,

Coercing and oppressing the people of the realm,

And all people give rise to suffering and affliction.

Afterward one undergoes the retribution of suffering,

And that suffering is a thousandfold.

Since I see others undergo suffering,

How could I alone be at peace and joy?

This indeed is my Teacher,

Showing me these sufferings.

Reflecting thus,

He then attained Pratyekabuddhahood.

At that time the Prince granted the blind people precious wealth, then donned the dharma robes of a Śramaṇa, flew up into empty space, manifested various spiritual transformations, and said to his kinfolk: "As for me now, I no longer have anger, delusion, fear, or anxiety; I am not ashamed before you as I cast off kinfolk, country and land, and the people; nor again am I anxious over money, wealth, and precious treasures," as in the verse spoken above.

The story of the King of Kauśāmbī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

Delighting and reveling in objects of delight,

Giving and casting off like tears,

Forbearing the kingship in order to depart far away,

Cutting off and extinguishing the sufferings and afflictions.

Able to exhaust delusion, greed, and craving,

This mind attains liberation.

Because of attaining this liberation,

He met with matters like the Rhinoceros.

Formerly, from a Teacher's teaching of old,

He came to hear of a matter such as this.

In times past there was a Pratyekabuddha who in past lives before the Buddhas had cultivated the various wholesome roots, and in his final body was born in the land of Kauśāmbī and became king of that land. In this land there was a great calamity: violent winds reversed their courses, and the stars of heaven were thrown into disorder. The king summoned the astrologers and put a question to them in verse:

"By what condition is there this calamity?

For long there has been no rain;

In the sky there are no clouds;

The sun has no light.

The flesh of birds is all poisonous and harmful;

The vultures and the cuckoos

Soar and wheel in the empty sky.

Seeing this gives rise to fear;

Everywhere there is calamity and disaster.

Who has brought this matter about,

Causing such strange and wondrous portents,

Changes such as these?"

Then the diviners answered: "According to what we know, we shall now speak. In my opinion, all the people of the realm must surely meet with hardships of suffering and calamity." The king asked again: "From where does this calamity come?" The diviners answered: "If the king wishes the country to be at peace, then he should follow my words," and they uttered this verse:

If the king is able to abandon the throne

And flee away among other people,

After fully six months

He should again become a beggar.

The calamity will of itself be removed,

And the king will be like the full moon.

The king followed this counsel and at once abandoned the kingship, dressed in ordinary clothes, and went on from place to place. When he reached the city of Bhāṣitā, after he arrived there was yet another king who led an army to attack. Because the king of Bhāṣitā loved his country, he together with his soldiers came to resist. The two sides joined battle, and both kings were killed. The princes of the city of Bhāṣitā rose up together, each contending for the country, and again created a great battle. King Vilāsana (Tỳ La Tiên), seeing this, cried out aloud in dread, and then uttered this verse:

The kingship, though honored and noble,

That joy is truly light and trifling.

Why then act in such a way

As to create suffering and calamity?

The mind is wont to give rise to combat,

And joy falls into the place of suffering.

Like the fly greedy to eat honey,

Stuck in the honey, it is not alone in its grief.

People too are likewise:

Because of greed for slight joy,

They fight and slay one another.

The kingship is contended over,

Gathering together much suffering and affliction,

Even to the point of wishing to kill one another,

Like drinking poison by mistake:

The poison seeps in and the body decays and is ruined.

Merely for the sake of this single body,

One inflicts many wounds and injuries.

The fool covets the joy of the kingship,

But the joy is little and the suffering truly much.

I from now on resolve to stop,

And then will not seek this joy.

For these affairs of the realm

Are filled within with anxiety and care—

What benefit is there in that joy?

Anxiety, care, suffering, and affliction without end.

Just like a house of gold,

Burned by fire, forever ablaze—

The wise fear the burning

And should not enter it again.

When this reflection was complete,

He then awakened to Pratyekabuddhahood.

By the power of spiritual penetration,

His hair fell out of itself,

And at once he took the form of a Śramaṇa.

Using his body he flew up on high,

And within that empty space

He then uttered the verse as above.

Afterward he flew to the Snow Mountains, the dwelling place of the Pratyekabuddhas, and those Pratyekabuddhas asked: "Through what karmic condition did you attain awakening to the fruit of the Way?" And all of them uttered the verse as above in reply.

The story of King Senāpati of Vārāṇasī awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

Throughout the world reveling in delight,

Loving moreover what is loved—

All of it is cast aside,

And the mind and intention attain liberation.

The faculties are then at peace,

And he walks alone like the Rhinoceros.

I of old, from the masters,

Received and heard such a matter.

In a past age, in the city of Vārāṇasī, there was a king named Senāpati (Thân Quân) who had two consorts. His mind was wont to love them; he reveled in attachment to the pleasures of desire, constantly given to license, sunk in wine and drinking, like an elephant intoxicated by fragrance that rushes into the place of fragrance and seeks out the Malaya Mountains to indulge in the pleasures of desire. At that time the two consorts grew to hate one another, manifesting base and mean conduct.

One of the wives used poison and entrusted it to a confidant, and this confidant went to harm the other consort. The consort drank the medicine and at once went mad and fell unconscious, and the poison seeping in caused her death. The second consort, seeing that this one had died, feigned the appearance of grief, herself loosening her hair and beating her breast, wailing and lamenting, and the whole palace grieved.

When the king heard of the death, he gave rise to sorrow and affliction. The consorts to left and right each had attendants, and they wore strings of necklaces fully upon their persons—all of them beautiful—yet they smeared their bodies with dust, and the poison entered the heart, as if pursued and pressed by a flock of geese, as the Garuḍa (Kim Sí Điểu, Golden-Winged Bird) seizes upon the Nāga maiden. Within the palace the palace women cried out like thunder, just like this.

At that time within the palace it was as though empty and void, again like black dust veiling the light, and the palace people, sorrowful and anxious in their thoughts, were likewise. When the king heard the palace people thus, he was at once grieved and afflicted, and his mind was shaken; the necklace-cap that he wore and his garments, as well as the necklaces upon his body, he all loosened and cast down upon the ground, and he entered the place of mourning, where he saw the palace women in suffering most extreme.

When the king saw this, he gave rise to great sorrow and affliction, and reflecting within himself he then uttered this verse:

Just as the heaven of the summer season

Is wont to make fine flowers wither,

On the day of death the human form perishes,

The color of the face turning blue-black,

Lips and teeth all foul and stinking,

Eyes and nose together streaming.

The marvelous grace of song and dance

Is now like a faggot of stone.

Those before were wont to tell me

That the attachment of love is truly joy.

Why then, come this day,

Am I given rise to fear?

Dreading and anxious over life-and-death,

Impure and foul-smelling,

Like a dream, false and not real,

Like the pith of a plantain tree,

Having no true and real characteristic,

Like an illusion, foam, and bubble,

Gradually appearing like water-foam.

The wise are able to depart from evil;

The unwise, having observed,

Are wont to give rise to delighting attachment,

And in this impure thing

Give rise to this notion of the body,

In confused sorrow clinging and grasping,

Like one who is drowsy with sleep.

Before this reflection was complete, the cremation of the consort's corpse was already done. As for the second consort, she fled away; she ate and drank and spoke falsely and afflicted herself, saying she did not wish to eat, manifesting grief and sorrow. Because of that anxiety, her appearance was exposed, and her mind was constantly sorrowful. Because of that sorrow and anxiety her food and drink would not digest, and she became gravely ill. When the king saw the sickness, he grew the more sorrowful and downcast, and at once wished to depart far away. Thus is birth-and-death truly to be dreaded, and so he uttered this verse:

As a woman is wont to give rise to love,

Giving rise to many kinds of vexation and trouble—

Human beings are not without it—

Through the love of others joy is born,

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

Love is the root of suffering.

Seeing love come together and part,

One clearly knows impermanence.

That which I love and cherish,

Upright and in the years of youth—

In a single day death comes again.

Therefore one must clearly know:

Why should there be joy?

Who is the one with wisdom

Who, in the meeting of love and affection,

Would give rise to a mind of delighting attachment?

Dreading that aging, sickness, and death,

Therefore I resolve to depart.

When he reflected thus,

He then became a Pratyekabuddha.

He then put on the garments of a king, wore the necklaces, flew up into empty space, and up in empty space spoke the verse as above, transformed into a Śramaṇa, and flew to the Snow Mountains, to the same place as the other Pratyekabuddhas.

The story of the youngest son of a Cakravartin (Wheel-Turning King) awakening to the condition of a Pratyekabuddha.

In a certain past kalpa there was a Cakravartin (Wheel-Turning Sage King) fully possessed of a thousand sons. This youngest son, when he saw his father seated upon a golden carriage fully arrayed with the seven treasures, together with his guard of soldiers, drums and gongs, canopies and parasols—all of it splendid and complete—this youngest son then asked his mother: "When shall I obtain a fine canopy to shade me such as this?" The mother then answered: "Son, even unto the becoming of bones it would still be hard to obtain such a thing." The son then asked: "Why can it not be obtained?" "Because you still have nine hundred ninety-nine brothers, each of whom wishes to obtain the kingship;

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

And if I did, it would still be a mutual slaughter of one's own flesh and blood." Pondering such matters of birth-and-death, he grew weary and disgusted, and then awakened and attained Pratyekabuddhahood. His body flew up into empty space, performing the eighteen kinds of transformations. The mother then made a request from afar: "Come to my garden to receive offerings." At that time the Pratyekabuddha accepted his mother's request and came to the rear garden.

Day after day he received offerings, and after a long while had passed, that Pratyekabuddha then concealed this body and gave it up to enter Nirvāṇa. The mother, out of fond longing, took fragrant wood to cremate him, gathered the relics (śarīra), and placed them within a precious vase. At the rear of the garden she built a stūpa for worship.

At that time the Cakravartin King, returning from making his circuit of the four gates of the city, came to the rear garden and saw there was a great stūpa. Astonished, he asked, and the keeper of the garden then reported to the king: "This is the king's youngest son, who has become a Pratyekabuddha and has entered Nirvāṇa. The mothers therefore built this stūpa." Having heard this, the king summoned the mothers and asked them: "Why did my son die, and why was this stūpa built?" The mothers, following the matter above, recounted it fully to the king.

The king again asked the mother: "What did my son wish to obtain? Why did you not tell me clearly, and now there is only Nirvāṇa?" Thereafter the king adorned the stūpa. Through this karmic condition, for immeasurable kalpas he constantly became a Cakravartin (Wheel-Turning Sage King), his food and drink being merit naturally provided, which even to this day is not exhausted.

Wherever he was born and died, for all two thousand five hundred lives he became a Cakravartin (Wheel-Turning Sage King). Because of attaining Buddhahood he obtained two thousand five hundred jeweled canopies. Among these, King Ajātaśatru offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies.

The Licchavi son of Vaiśālī (Tỳ Xá Ly Luật Xa Tử) offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies. The Ocean Dragon King (Hải Long Vương) offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies. The Asura King too offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies. Śakra, Lord of the Heavens (Thiên Đế Thích), too offered the Buddha five hundred jeweled canopies.

At that time the World-Honored One did not accept a single one of them. Why was this? Because his disciples in the future would be poor in the matter of offerings of robes as well as of food and drink.

Therefore by the power of this merit, gods and humans would naturally supply them. By this karmic condition it is clearly known that the fields of merit of the worthy and sagely are all vast and deep, beyond comparison.

The Treatise on the Causes and Conditions of the Pratyekabuddhas.

End of the lower scroll.