The Jataka Tales
a selection edited byD. L. Ashliman
© 2002-2026
Part of the canon of sacred Buddhist literature, this collection of some 550 anecdotes and fables depicts earlier incarnations -- sometimes as an animal, sometimes as a human -- of the being who would become Siddhartha Gautama, the future Buddha. Traditional birth and death dates of Gautama are 563-483 BC. The Jataka tales are dated between 300 BC and 400 AD.
Many of the tales are set in or near Benares, now called Varanasi, a city in north central India on the Ganges River. One of the world's oldest cities, Varanasi is the most sacred place for Hindus. Buddhists and Muslims also have important religious sites nearby. According to tradition, Buddha began his teaching at Sarnath a short distance from this city.
As such he had lived a long, long time, when one day he said to his barber, "My good barber, whenever you find grey hairs on my head, let me know."
And after a long, long time had passed away, the barber one day found among the jet-black locks one grey hair; and he told the king of it, saying, "There is a grey hair to be seen on your head, O king!"
"Pull it out, then, friend, and put it in my hand!" said he.
So he tore it out with golden pincers, and placed it in the hand of the king. There were then eighty-four thousand years of the lifetime allotted to the king still to elapse. But, nevertheless, as he looked upon the grey hair he was deeply agitated, as if the King of Death had come nigh unto him, or as if he found himself inside a house on fire.
And he thought, "O foolish Makha Deva! though grey hairs have come upon you, you yet have not been able to get rid of the frailties and passions which deprave men's hearts!"
As he thus meditated and meditated on the appearance of the grey hair, his heart burned within him, drops of perspiration rolled down from his body, and his very robes oppressed him and became unbearable.
And he thought, "This very day I must leave the world and devote myself to a religious life!"
Then he gave to the barber a grant of a village whose revenue amounted to a hundred thousand.
And he sent for his eldest son, and said to him, "My son! grey hairs have appeared on my head. I am become an old man. I have done with all human hopes; now I will seek heavenly things. It is time for me to abandon the world. Do you assume the sovereignty. I will embrace the religious life, and, dwelling in the garden called Makha Deva's Mango-Park, I will train myself in the characteristics of those who are subdued in heart."
His ministers, when he formed this intention, came to him and said, "What is the reason, O king! of your giving up the world?"
Then the king, taking the grey hair in his hand, uttered this verse:
These grey hairs that have come upon my headHaving thus spoken, he laid down his sovereignty that very day, and became a hermit; and living in the Mango-Grove of Makha Deva, of which he had spoken, he spent eighty-four thousand years in practising perfect goodwill towards all beings, and in constant devotion to meditation. And after he died he was born again in the Brahma heaven; and when his allotted time there was exhausted, he became in Mithila a king called Nimi, and reunited his scattered family. And after that he became a hermit in that same Mango-Grove, and practised perfect goodwill towards all beings, and again returned to the Brahma heaven.
Are angel messengers appearing to me,
Laying stern hands upon the evening of my life!
'Tis time I should devote myself to holy thought!
The Teacher, having thus discoursed on the subject that not then only, but formerly too, the Successor of the Buddhas had abandoned the world, proclaimed the Four Truths. Some entered the First Stage of the Path to Nirvana, some the Second, some the Third.And when the Blessed One had thus told the double story, he established the connexion, and summed up the Jataka as follows: "The barber of that time was Ananda, the prince was Rahula, but Makha Deva, the king, was I myself."
Now his sister brought her son to him, saying, "Brother, teach your nephew here the ruses of deer."
"Certainly," said the Bodhisatta; "go away now, my boy, and come back at such and such a time to be taught."
Punctually at the time his uncle mentioned, the young stag was there and received instruction in the ruses of deer.
One day as he was ranging the woods he was caught in a snare and uttered the plaintive cry of a captive. Away fled the herd and told the mother of her son's capture. She came to her brother and asked him whether his nephew had been taught the ruses of deer.
"Fear not; your son is not at fault," said the Bodhisatta. "He has learnt thoroughly deer's ruses, and will come back straightway to your great rejoicing."
And so saying, he repeated this stanza:
In all three postures -- on his back or sidesThus did the Bodhisatta console his sister by shewing her how thoroughly her son had mastered the ruses of deer. Meantime the young stag on being caught in the snare did not struggle, but lay down at full length on his side, with his legs stretched out taut and rigid. He pawed up the ground round his hoofs so as to shower the grass and earth about; relieved nature; let his head fall; lolled out his tongue; beslavered his body all over; swelled himself out by drawing in the wind; turned up his eyes; breathed only with the lower nostril, holding his breath with the upper one; and made himself generally so rigid and so stiff as to look like a corpse. Even the blue-bottles swarmed round him; and here and there crows settled.
Your son is versed; he's trained to use eight hoofs,
And save at midnight never slakes his thirst;
As he lies couched on earth, he lifeless seems,
And only with his under-nostril breathes.
Six tricks my nephew knows to cheat his foes.
The hunter came up and smacked the stag on the belly with his hand, remarking, "He must have been caught early this morning. He's going bad already."
So saying, the man loosed the stag from his bonds, saying to himself, "I'll cut him up here where he lies, and take the flesh home with me."
But as the man guilelessly set to work to gather sticks and leaves (to make a fire with), the young stag rose to his feet, shook himself, stretched out his neck, and, like a little cloud scudding before a mighty wind, sped swiftly back to his mother.
As they were engaged thinking which was the oldest, one day an idea struck them.
Said the partridge and the monkey to the elephant as they all three sat together at the foot of that banyan-tree, "Friend elephant, how big was this banyan when you remember it first?"
Said the elephant, "When I was a baby, this banyan was a mere bush, over which I used to walk; and as I stood astride of it, its topmost branches used just to reach up to my belly. I've known the tree since it was a mere bush."
Next the monkey was asked the same question by the other two; and he replied, "My friends, when I was a youngling, I had only to stretch out my neck as I sat on the ground, and I could eat the topmost sprouts of this banyan. So I've known this banyan since it was very tiny."
Then the partridge was asked the same question by the two others; and he said, "Friends, of old there was a great banyan-tree at such and such a spot; I ate its seeds, and voided them here; that was the origin of this tree. Therefore, I have knowledge of this tree from before it was born, and am older than the pair of you."
Hereupon the monkey and the elephant said to the sage partridge, "Friend, you are the oldest. Henceforth you shall have from us acts of honour and veneration, marks of obeisance and homage, respect of word and deed, salutation, and all due homage; and we will follow your counsels. You for your part henceforth will please impart such counsel as we need."
Thenceforth the partridge gave them counsel, and established them in the Commandments, which he also undertook himself to keep. Being thus established in the Commandments, and becoming respectful and subordinate among themselves, with proper ordering of their common life, these three made themselves sure of rebirth in heaven at this life's close.
It was at the close of this lesson that the Master, as Buddha, repeated this stanza:
For they who honour age, in Truth are versed;
Praise now, and bliss hereafter, is their meed.
When the Master had finished speaking of the virtue of reverencing age, he made the connexion and identified the Birth by saying, "Moggallana was the elephant of those days, Sariputta the monkey, and I myself the sage partridge."
Once on a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta gained his livelihood as a trader. In these days in a border village in Kasi there dwelt a number of carpenters. And it chanced that one of them, a bald gray-haired man, was planing away at some wood with his head glistening like a copper bowl, when a mosquito settled on his scalp and stung him with its dart like sting.
Said the carpenter to his son, who was seated hard by, "My boy, there's a mosquito stinging me on the head. Do drive it away."
"Hold still then father," said the son. "One blow will settle it."
(At that very time the Bodhisatta had reached that village in the way of trade, and was sitting in the carpenter's shop.)
"Rid me of it!" cried the father.
"All right, father," answered the son, who was behind the old man's back, and, raising a sharp ax on high with intent to kill only the mosquito, he cleft his father's head in two. So the old man fell dead on the spot.
Thought the Bodhisatta, who had been an eye witness of the whole scene, "Better than such a friend is an enemy with sense, whom fear of men's vengeance will deter from killing a man." And he recited these lines:
Sense-lacking friends are worse than foes with sense;
Witness the son that sought the gnat to slay,
But cleft, poor fool, his father's skull in two.
So saying, the Bodhisatta rose up and departed, passing away in after days to fare according to his deserts. And as for the carpenter, his body was burned by his kinsfolk.
At midnight a jackal came into the town by the sewer, and regaled himself on the meat and liquor. Crawling into some bushes, he was fast asleep when morning dawned. Waking up and seeing it was broad daylight, he knew that he could not make his way back at that hour with safety. So he lay down quietly near the roadside where he could not be seen, till at last he saw a solitary brahmin on his way to rinse his mouth in the tank.
Then the jackal thought to himself, "Brahmins are a greedy lot. I must so play on his greediness as to get him to carry me out of the city in his waist-cloth under his outer robe."
So, with a human voice, he cried "Brahmin."
"Who calls me?" said the brahmin, turning round.
"I, brahmin."
"What for?"
"I have two hundred gold pieces, brahmin; and if you will hide me in your waist-cloth under your outer robe and so get me out of the city without my being seen, you shall have them all."
Closing with the offer, the greedy brahmin hid the jackal and carried the beast a little way out of the city.
"What place is this, brahmin?" said the jackal.
"Oh, it's such and such a place," said the brahmin.
"Go on a bit further," said the jackal and kept urging the brahmin on always a little further, till at last the cremation-park was reached.
"Put me down here," said the jackal; and the brahmin did so.
"Spread your robe out on the ground, brahmin." And the greedy brahmin did so.
"And now dig up this tree by the roots," said he, and while the brahmin was at work he walked on to the robe, and dunged and staled on it in five places, -- the four corners and the middle.
This done, he made off into the wood.
Hereon the Bodhisatta, standing in the fork of the tree, uttered this stanza:
The drunken jackal, brahmin, cheats thy trust!And when he had repeated these verses, the Bodhisatta said to the brahmin, "Go now and wash your robe and bathe, and go about your business."
Thou'lt find not here a hundred cowry-shells,
Far less thy quest, two hundred coins of gold.
So saying, he vanished from sight, and the brahmin did as he was bidden, and departed very mortified at having been so tricked.
His lesson ended, the Master identified the Birth by saying, "Devadatta was the jackal of those days, and I the Tree-sprite."
When the Brother's hypocrisy was reported to him, the Master said, "This is not the first time he has shewn himself a hypocrite; he was just the same in times gone by."
So saying he told this story of the past.
Now there was a roving jackal who espied this troop of rats and fell to scheming how to beguile and eat them. And he took up his stand near their home with his face to the sun, snuffing up the wind, and standing on one leg. Seeing this when out on his road in quest of food, the Bodhisatta conceived the jackal to be a saintly being, and went up and asked his name.
"Godly is my name," said the jackal.
"Why do you stand only on one leg?"
"Because if I stood on all four at once, the earth could not bear my weight. That is why I stand on one leg only."
"And why do you keep your mouth open?"
"To take the air. I live on air; it is my only food."
"And why do you face the sun?"
"To worship him."
"What uprightness!" thought the Bodhisatta, and thenceforward he made a point of going, attended by the other rats, to pay his respects morning and evening to the saintly jackal. And when the rats were leaving, the jackal seized and devoured the hindermost one of them, wiped his lips, and looked as though nothing had happened.
In consequence of this the rats grew fewer and fewer, till they noticed the gaps in their ranks, and wondering why this was so, asked the Bodhisatta the reason. He could not make it out, but suspecting the jackal, resolved to put him to the test. So next day he let the other rats go out first and himself brought up the rear.
The jackal made a spring on the Bodhisatta who, seeing him coming, faced round and cried, "So this is your saintliness, you hypocrite and rascal!"
And he repeated the following stanza:
Where saintliness is but a cloakSo saying, the king of the rats sprang at the jackal's throat and bit his windpipe asunder just under the jaw, so that he died. Back trooped the other rats and gobbled up the body of the jackal with a "crunch, crunch, crunch"; -- that is to say, the foremost of them did, for they say there was none left for the last-corners. And ever after the rats lived happily in peace and quiet.
Whereby to cozen guileless folk
And screen a villain's treachery,
--The cat-like nature there we see.
His lesson ended, the Master made the connection by saying, "This hypocritical Brother was the jackal of those days, and I the king of the rats."
Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born a Brahmin, and growing up was married to a bride of his own rank, who bore him three daughters named Nanda, Nanda-vati, and Sundari-nanda. The Bodhisatta dying, they were taken in by neighbors and friends, whilst he was born again into the world as a golden mallard endowed with consciousness of its former existences.
Growing up, the bird viewed its own magnificent size and golden plumage, and remembered that previously it had been a human being. Discovering that his wife and daughters were living on the charity of others, the mallard bethought him of his plumage like hammered and beaten gold and how by giving them a golden feather at a time he could enable his wife and daughters to live in comfort. So away he flew to where they dwelt and alighted on the top of the central beam of the roof. Seeing the Bodhisatta, the wife and girls asked where he had come from; and he told them that he was their father who had died and been born a golden mallard, and that he had come to visit them and put an end to their miserable necessity of working for hire.
"You shall have my feathers," said he, "one by one, and they will sell for enough to keep you all in ease and comfort."
So saying, he gave them one of his feathers and departed. And from time to time he returned to give them another feather, and with the proceeds of their sale these Brahmin women grew prosperous and quite well to do.
But one day the mother said to her daughters, "There's no trusting animals, my children. Who's to say your father might not go away one of these days and never come back again? Let us use our time and pluck him clean next time he comes, so as to make sure of all his feathers."
Thinking this would pain him, the daughters refused.
The mother in her greed called the golden mallard to her one day when he came, and then took him with both hands and plucked him.
Now the Bodhisatta's feathers had this property that if they were plucked out against his wish, they ceased to be golden and became like a crane's feathers. And now the poor bird, though he stretched his wings, could not fly, and the woman flung him into a barrel and gave him food there. As time went on his feathers grew again (though they were plain white ones now), and he flew away to his own abode and never came back again.
Once on a time, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born in a village as a potter's son. He plied the potter's trade, and had a wife and family to support.
At that time there lay a great natural lake close by the great river of Benares. When there was much water, river and lake were one; but when the water was low, they were apart. Now fish and tortoises know by instinct when the year will be rainy and when there will be a drought.
So at the time of our story the fish and tortoises which lived in that lake knew there would be a drought; and when the two were one water, they swam out of the lake into the river. But there was one tortoise that would not go into the river, because, said he, "here I was born, and here I have grown up, and here is my parents' home. Leave it I cannot!"
Then in the hot season the water all dried up. He dug a hole and buried himself, just in the place where the Bodhisatta was used to come for clay. There the Bodhisatta came to get some clay. With a big spade he dug down, until he cracked the tortoise's shell, turning him out on the ground as though he were a large piece of clay. In his agony the creature thought, "Here I am, dying, all because I was too fond of my home to leave it!" And in the words of these following verses, he made his moan:
Here was I born, and here I lived; my refuge was the clay;
And now the clay has played me false in a most grievous way;
Thee, thee I call, oh Bhaggava; hear what I have to say!
Go where thou canst find happiness, where'er the place may be;
Forest or village, there the wise both home and birthplace see;
Go where there's life; nor stay at home for death to master thee.
So he went on and on, talking to the Bodhisatta, until he died. The Bodhisatta picked him up, and collecting all the villagers addressed them thus: "Look at this tortoise. When the other fish and tortoises went into the great river, he was too fond of home to go with them, and buried himself in the place where I get my clay. Then as I was digging for clay, I broke his shell with my big spade, and turned him out on the ground in the belief that he was a large lump of clay. Then he called to mind what he had done, lamented his fate in two verses of poetry, and expired.
So you see he came to his end because he was too fond of his home. Take care not to be like this tortoise. Don't say to yourselves, 'I have sight, I have hearing, I have smell, I have taste, I have touch, I have a son, I have a daughter, I have numbers of men and maids for my service, I have precious gold.' Do not cleave to these things with craving and desire. Each being passes through three stages of existence."
Thus did he exhort the crowd with all a Buddha's skill. The discourse was bruited abroad all over India, and for full seven thousand years it was remembered. All the crowd abode by his exhortation, and gave alms, and did good until at last they went to swell the hosts of heaven.
At one time there were a great many Brethren who used to get a living by being physicians, or runners, doing errands on foot, exchanging alms for alms and the like, the twenty-one unlawful callings. All this will be set forth in the Saketa Birth.
When the Master found out that they got their living thus, he said, "Now there are a great many Brethren who get their living in unlawful ways. Those who get their living thus will not escape birth as goblins or disembodied spirits; they will become beasts of burden; they will be born in hell; for their benefit and blessing it is necessary to hold a discourse which bears its own moral clear and plain."
So he summoned the Community together, and said, "Brethren, you must not win your necessaries by the one-and-twenty unlawful methods. Food won unlawfully is like a piece of redhot iron, like a deadly poison. These unlawful methods are blamed and rebuked by disciples of all Buddhas and Pacceka-Buddhas. For those who eat food gained by unlawful means there is no laughter and no joy. Food got in this way, in my religion, is like the leavings of one of the lowest caste. To partake of it, for a disciple of the Religion of the Good, is like partaking of the leavings of the vilest of mankind."
And with these words, he told an old-world story.
At that time there was a young fellow in Benares, named Satadhamma. He was the son of a magnifico, a Northern brahmin. He also took the road for some purpose, but neither rice grains nor basket had he. The two met upon the highway.
Said the young brahmin to the other, "What caste are you of?"
He replied, "Of the lowest. And what are you?"
"Oh, I am a Northern brahmin."
"All right, let us journey together."
And so together they fared along. Breakfast time came. The Bodhisatta sat down where there was some nice water, and washed his hands, and opened his basket.
"Will you have some?" said he.
"Tut, tut," says the other, "I want none, you low fellow."
" All right," says the Bodhisatta.
Careful to waste none, he put as much as he wanted in a leaf apart from the rest, fastened up his basket, and ate. Then he took a drink of water, washed his hands and feet, and picked up the rest of his rice and food.
"Come along, young Sir," says he, and they started off again on their journey.
All day they tramped along; and at evening they both had a bath in some nice water. When they came out, the Bodhisatta sat down in a nice place, undid his parcel, and began to eat. This time he did not offer the other a share.
The young gentleman was tired with walking all day, and hungry to the bottom of his soul; there he stood, looking on, and thinking, "If he offers me any, I'll take it."
But the other ate away without a word.
"This low fellow," thought the young man, "eats every scrap without a word. Well, I'll beg a piece. I can throw away the outside, which is defiled, and eat the rest."
And so he did. He ate what was left.
As soon as he had eaten, he thought: "How I have disgraced my birth, my clan, my family! Why, I have eaten the leavings of a low born churl!"
Keen indeed was his remorse; he threw up the food, and blood came with it.
"Oh, what a wicked deed I have done," he wept, "all for the sake of a trifle!" and he went on in the words of the first stanza:
What a trifle! and his leavings! given too against his will!Thus did the young gentleman make his lamentation; adding, "Why did I do such a wicked thing just for life's sake?"
And I am a highborn brahmin! and the stuff has made me ill!"
He plunged into the jungle, and never let any eye see him again, but there he died forlorn.
When this story was ended, the Master repeated, "Just as the young brahmin, Brethren, after eating the leavings of a low-caste man, found that neither laughter nor joy was for him, because he had taken improper food. So whosoever has embraced this salvation, and gains a livelihood by unlawful means, when he eats the food and supports his life in any way that is blamed and disapproved by the Buddha, will find that there is no laughter and no joy for him." Then, becoming perfectly enlightened, he repeated the second stanza:He that lives by being wicked, he that cares not if he sins,When this discourse was concluded, the Master declared the Truths and identified the Birth -- at the conclusion of the Truths many Brethren entered upon the Paths and the Fruit thereof -- saying, "At the time of the story, I was the low-caste man."
Like the brahmin in the story, has no joy of what he wins.
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was king of Benares, the Bodhisatta came into the world as a young parrot. His name was Radha, and his youngest brother was named Potthapada. While they were yet quite young, both of them were caught by a fowler and handed over to a Brahmin in Benares. The Brahmin cared for them as if they were his children. But the Brahmin's wife was a wicked woman. There was no watching her.
The husband had to go away on business, and addressed his young parrots thus: "Little dears, I am going away on business. Keep watch on your mother in season and out of season. Observe whether or not any man visits her." So off he went, leaving his wife in charge of the young parrots.
As soon as he was gone, the woman began to do wrong. Night and day the visitors came and went. There was no end to them. Potthapada, observing this, said to Radha, "Our master gave this woman into our charge, and here she is doing wickedness. I will speak to her."
"Don't," said Radha.
But the other would not listen. "Mother," said he, "why do you commit sin?"
How she longed to kill him! But making as though she would fondle him, she called him to her. "Little one, you are my son! I will never do it again! Here, then the dear!" So he came out. Then she seized him, crying, "What! You preach to me! You don't know your measure!" And she wrung his neck, and threw him into the oven.
The Brahmin returned. When he had rested, he asked the Bodhisatta, "Well, my dear, what about your mother? Does she do wrong, or no?" And as he asked the question, he repeated the first couplet:
I come, my son, the journey done, and now I am at home again,"
Come tell me, is your mother true? Does she make love to other men?
Radha answered, "Father dear, the wise speak not of things which do not conduce to blessing, whether they have happened or not." And he explained this by repeating the second couplet:
For what he said he now lies dead, burnt up beneath the ashes there.
It is not well the truth to tell, lest Potthapada's fate I share.
Thus did the Bodhisatta hold forth to the Brahmin. And he went on, "This is no place for me to live in either." Then bidding the Brahmin farewell, he flew away into the woods.
She died; and at her death the king was plunged in grief, and became sad and miserable. He had the body laid in a coffin, and embalmed with oil and ointment, and laid beneath the bed; and there he lay without food, weeping and wailing.
In vain did his parents and kinsfolk, friends and courtiers, priests and laymen, bid him not to grieve, since all things pass away; they could not move him. As he lay in sorrow, seven days passed by.
Now the Bodhisatta was at that time an ascetic, who had gained the Five Supernatural Faculties and the Eight Attainments; he dwelt at the foot of Himalaya. He was possessed of perfect supernatural insight, and as he looked round India with his heavenly vision, he saw this king lamenting, and straightway resolved to help him.
By his miraculous power he rose in the air, and alighted in the king's park, and sat down on the ceremonial stone, like a golden image. A young brahmin of the city of Potali entered the park, and seeing the Bodhisatta, he greeted him and sat down. The Bodhisatta began to talk pleasantly with him.
"Is the king a just ruler?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, the king is just," replied the youth; "but his queen is just dead; he has laid her body in a coffin, and lies down lamenting her; and today is the seventh day since he began. Why do you not free the king from this great grief? Virtuous beings like you ought to overcome the king's sorrow."
"I do not know the king, young man," said the Bodhisatta; "but if he were to come and ask me, I would tell him the place where she has now come into the flesh again, and make her speak herself."
"Then, holy sir, stay here until I bring the king to you," said the youth.
The Bodhisatta agreed, and he hastened into the king's presence, and told him about it.
"You should visit this being with the divine insight!" he told the king.
The king was overjoyed at the thought of seeing Ubbari; and he entered his chariot and drove to the place.
Greeting the Bodhisatta, he sat down on one side, and asked, "Is it true, as I am told, that you know where my queen has come into being again?"
"Yes, I do, my lord king," replied he.
Then the king asked where it was.
The Bodhisatta replied, "O king, she was intoxicated with her beauty, and so fell into negligence and did not do fair and virtuous acts; so now she has become a little dung-worm in this very park."
"I don't believe it!" said the king.
"Then I will show her to you, and make her speak," answered the Bodhisatta.
"Please make her speak!" said the king.
The Bodhisatta commanded: "Let the two that are busy rolling a lump of cow-dung, come forth before the king!" and by his power he made them do it, and they came.
The Bodhisatta pointed one out to the king: "There is your queen Ubbari, O king! she has just come out of this lump, following her husband the dung-worm. Look and see."
"What! My queen Ubbari a dung-worm? I don't believe it!" cried the king.
"I will make her speak, O king!"
"Pray make her speak, holy sir!" said he.
The Bodhisatta by his power gave her speech.
"Ubbari!" said he.
"What is it, holy sir?" she asked, in a human voice.
"What was your name in your former character?" the Bodhisatta asked her.
"My name was Ubbari, sir," she replied, "the consort of King Assaka."
"Tell me," the Bodhisatta went on, "which do you love best now -- king Assaka, or this dung-worm?"
"O sir, that was my former birth," said she. "Then I lived with him in this park, enjoying shape and sound, scent, savor and touch; but now that my memory is confused by rebirth, what is he? Why, now I would kill king Assaka, and would smear the feet of my husband the dung-worm with the blood flowing from his throat!" and in the midst of the king's company, she uttered these verses in a human voice:
Once with the great king Assaka, who was my husband dear,When king Assaka heard this, he repented on the spot; and at once he caused the queen's body to be removed, and washed his head. He saluted the Bodhisatta, and went back into the city, where he married another queen, and ruled in righteousness.
Beloving and beloved, I walked about this garden here.But now new sorrows and new joys have made the old ones flee,
And dearer far than Assaka my worm is now to me.
And the Bodhisatta, having instructed the king, and set him free from sorrow, returned again to the Himalayas.
Once upon a time, while Brahmadatta was king of Benares, the Bodhisatta came to life at the foot of the Himalayas as a monkey. He grew strong and sturdy, big of frame, well to do, and lived by a curve of the river Ganges in a forest haunt. Now at that time there was a crocodile dwelling in the Ganges. The crocodile's mate saw the great frame of the monkey, and she conceived a longing to eat his heart. So she said to her lord, "Sir, I desire to eat the heart of that great king of the monkeys!"
"Good wife," said the crocodile, "I live in the water and he lives on dry land. How can we catch him?"
"By hook or by crook," she replied, "he must be caught. If I don't get him, I shall die."
"All right," answered the crocodile, consoling her, "don't trouble yourself. I have a plan. I will give you his heart to eat."
So when the Bodhisatta was sitting on the bank of the Ganges, after taking a drink of water, the crocodile drew near, and said, "Sir Monkey, why do you live on bad fruits in this old familiar place? On the other side of the Ganges there is no end to the mango trees, and labuja trees, with fruit sweet as honey! Is it not better to cross over and have all kinds of wild fruit to eat?"
"Lord Crocodile," the monkey answered. "The Ganges is deep and wide. How shall I get across?"
"If you want to go, I will let you sit upon my back, and carry you over."
The monkey trusted him, and agreed. "Come here, then," said the crocodile. "Up on my back with you!" and up the monkey climbed. But when the crocodile had swum a little way, he plunged the monkey under the water.
"Good friend, you are letting me sink!" cried the monkey. "What is that for?"
The crocodile said, "You think I am carrying you out of pure good nature? Not a bit of it! My wife has a longing for your heart, and I want to give it to her to eat.!"
"Friend," said the monkey, "it is nice of you to tell me. Why, if our heart were inside us, when we go jumping among the tree tops it would be all knocked to pieces!"
"Well, where do you keep it?" asked the crocodile.
The Bodhisatta pointed out a fig tree, with clusters of ripe fruit, standing not far off. "See," said he, "there are our hearts hanging on yonder fig tree."
"If you will show me your heart," said the crocodile, "then I won't kill you."
"Take me to the tree, then, and I will point it out to you."
The crocodile brought him to the place. The monkey leapt off his back, and, climbing up the fig tree, sat upon it. "Oh silly crocodile!" said he. "You thought that there were creatures that kept their hearts in a treetop! You are a fool, and I have outwitted you! You may keep your fruit to yourself. Your body is great, but you have no sense."
And then to explain this idea he uttered the following stanzas:
Rose-apple, jack-fruit, mangoes, too, across the water there I see;
Enough of them, I want them not; my fig is good enough for me!
Great is your body, verily, but how much smaller is your wit!
Now go your ways, Sir Crocodile, for I have had the best of it.
The crocodile, feeling as sad and miserable as if he had lost a thousand pieces of money, went back sorrowing to the place where he lived.
Now there dwelt a tortoise in a certain pond in the region of Himalaya. Two young wild geese, searching for food, struck up an acquaintance with him; and by and by they grew close friends together.
One day these two said to him: "Friend Tortoise, we have a lovely home in Himalaya, on a plateau of Mount Cittakuta, in a cave of gold! Will you come with us?"
"Why," said he, "how can I get there?"
"Oh, we will take you, if only you can keep your mouth shut, and say not a word to anybody."
"Yes, I can do that," says he. "Take me along!"
So they made the tortoise hold a stick between his teeth; and themselves taking hold so of the two ends, they sprang up into the air.
The village children saw this, and exclaimed: "There are two geese carrying a tortoise by a stick!"
(By this time the geese flying swiftly had arrived at the space above the palace of the king, at Benares.)
The Tortoise wanted to cry out: "Well, and if my friends do carry me, what is that to you, you caitiffs?" And he let go the stick from between his teeth, and falling into the open courtyard he split in two.
What an uproar there was! "A tortoise has fallen in the courtyard, and broken in two!" they cried.
The king, with the Bodhisatta, and all his court, came up to the place, and seeing the tortoise asked the Bodhisatta a question. "Wise Sir, what made this creature fall?"
"Now's my time!" thought he. "For a long while I have been wishing to admonish the king, and I have gone about seeking my opportunity. No doubt the truth is this: The tortoise and the geese became friendly; the geese must have meant to carry him to Himalaya, and so made him hold a stick between his teeth, and then lifted him into the air; then he must have heard some remark, and wanted to reply; and not being able to keep his mouth shut he must have let himself go; and so he must have fallen from the sky and thus come by his death."
So thought he; and addressed the king: "O king, they that have too much tongue, that set no limit to their speaking, ever come to such misfortune as this."
And he uttered the following verses:
The tortoise needs must speak aloud,"He is speaking of me!" the king thought to himself; and asked the Bodhisatta if it was so.
Although between his teeth
A stick he bit; yet, spite of it
He spoke -- and fell beneathAnd now, O mighty master, mark it well.
See thou speak wisely, see thou speak in season.
To death the tortoise fell;
He talked too much. That was the reason.
"Be it you, O great king, or be it another," replied he, "whosoever talks beyond measure comes by some misery of this kind." And so he made the thing manifest. And thenceforward the king abstained from talking, and became a man of few words.
Once on a time Bramadatta, the King of Benares, had four sons.
One day they sent for the charioteer and said to him, "We want to see a Judas tree [butea frondosa]. Show us one!"
"Very well, I will," the charioteer replied.
But he did not show it to them all together. He took the eldest at once to the forest in the chariot, and showed him the tree at the time when the buds were just sprouting from the stem. To the second he showed it when the leaves were green. To the third at the time of blossoming. And to the fourth when it was bearing fruit.
After this it happened that the four brothers were sitting together and someone asked, "What sort of a tree is the Judas tree?"
Then the first brother answered, "Like a burnt stump!"
And the second cried, "Like a banyan tree!"
And the third, "Like a piece of meat!"
And the fokuth said, "Like the acacia!"
They were vexed at each other's answers, and ran to find their father. "My Lord," they asked, "what sort of a tree is the Judas tree?"
"What did you say to that?" he asked.
They told him the manner of their answers.
Said the king, "All four of you have seen the tree. Only when the charioteer showed you the tree, you did not ask him, 'What is the tree like at such a time, or at such another time?' You made no distinctions, and that is the reason of your mistake."
And he repeated the first stanza:
All have seen the Judas tree.
What is your perplexity?
No one asked the charioteer
What its form the livelong year!"
The Master while in residence at Jetavana told this story of a certain landowner who dwelt at Savatthi.On the death of his brother, it is said, he was so overwhelmed with grief that he neither ate nor washed nor anointed himself, but in deep affliction he used to go to the cemetery at daybreak to weep.
The Master, early in the morning casting his eye upon the world and observing in that man a capacity for attaining to the fruition of the First Path, thought, "There is no one but myself that can, by telling him what happened long ago, assuage his grief and bring him to the fruition of the First Path. I must be his Refuge."
So next day on returning in the afternoon from his round of alms-begging, he took a junior priest and went to his house. On hearing of the Master's arrival, the landowner ordered a seat to be prepared and bade him enter, and saluting him he sat on one side.
In answer to the Master, who asked him why he was grieving, he said he had been sorrowing ever since his brother's death.
Said the Master, "All compound existences are impermanent, and what is to be broken is broken. One ought not to make a trouble of this. Wise men of old, from knowing this, did not grieve, when their brother died."
And at his request the Master related this legend of the past.
But the Bodhisatta neither lamented nor wept.
Men said, "See now, though his brother is dead, he does not so much as pull a wry face: he is a very hard-hearted fellow. Methinks he desired his brother's death, hoping to enjoy a double portion."
Thus did they blame the Bodhisatta.
His kinsfolk too reproved him, saying, "Though your brother is dead, you do not shed a tear."
On hearing their words he said: "In your blind folly, not knowing the Eight Worldly Conditions, you weep and cry, 'Alas! my brother is dead,' but I too, and you also, will have to die. Why then do you not weep at the thought of your own death? All existing things are transient, and consequently no single compound is able to remain in its natural condition. Though you, blind fools, in your state of ignorance, from not knowing the Eight Worldly Conditions, weep and lament, why should I weep?"
And so saying, he repeated these stanzas:
Weep for the living rather than the dead!Thus did the Bodhisatta teach these men the Truth, and delivered them all from their sorrow.
All creatures that a mortal form do take,
Four-footed beast and bird and hooded snake,
Yea men and angels all the same path tread.Powerless to cope with fate, rejoiced to die,
Midst sad vicissitude of bliss and pain,
Why shedding idle tears should man complain,
And plunged in sorrow for a brother sigh?Men versed in fraud and in excess grown old,
The untutored fool, e'en valiant men of might,
If worldly-wise and ignorant of right,
Wisdom itself as foolishness may hold.
The Master, after he had ended his religious exposition, revealed the Truths and identified the Birth.At the conclusion of the Truths the landowner attained to fruition of the First Path: "At that time the wise man who by his religious exposition delivered people from their sorrow was I myself."
This was a story told by the Master while living in the Badarika Monastery near Kosambi, regarding the elder Rahula.Now when the Brethren in the Hall of Truth were setting forth the praises of the venerable Rahula, and speaking of him as fond of instruction, scrupulous and patient of rebuke, the Master came up and on hearing from them the subject of their discourse said, "Not now only, but formerly also Rahula possessed all these virtues."
And then he told them a legend of the past.
The people, on seeing him, became believers, and built him a hut of leaves in a wood, and providing him with all that a Buddhist requires, made a home for him there.
At this time a fowler in this village had caught a decoy partridge, and putting it in a cage carefully trained and looked after it. Then he took it to the wood, and by its cry decoyed all the other partridges that came near. The partridge thought: "Through me many of my kinsfolk come by their death. This is a wicked act on my part."
So it kept quiet. When its master found it was quiet, he struck it on the head with a piece of bamboo. The partridge from the pain it suffered uttered a cry. And the fowler gained a living by decoying other partridges through it.
Then the partridge thought: "Well, suppose they die. There is no evil intention on my part. Do the evil consequences of my action affect me? When I am quiet, they do not come, but when I utter a cry, they do. And all that come this fellow catches and puts to death. Is there any sinful act here on my part, or is there not?"
Thenceforth the only thought of the partridge is, "Who verily may resolve my doubt?" and it goes about seeking for such a wise man.
Now one day the fowler snared a lot of partridges, and filling his basket with them he came to the Bodhisatta's hermitage to beg a draught of water. And putting down the cage near the Bodhisatta, he drank some water and lay down on the sand and fell asleep.
The partridge observing that he was asleep thought, "I will ask this ascetic as to my doubt, and if he knows he will solve my difficulty."
And as it lay in its cage, it repeated the first stanza in the form of a question:
Happy life I lead all day,The Bodhisatta solving this question uttered the second stanza:
Food abundant falls to me:
Yet I'm in a parlous way,
What's my future state to be?
If no evil in thy heartThe partridge on hearing this uttered the third stanza:
Prompts to deed of villainy,
Shouldst thou play a passive part,
Guilt attaches not to thee.
"Lo! our kinsman," thus they cry,On hearing this, the Bodhisatta repeated the fourth stanza:
And in crowds they flock to see.
Am I guilty, should they die?
Please resolve this doubt for me.
If no sin lurks in the heart,Thus did the Great Being console the partridge. And through him the bird was freed from remorse. Then the fowler waking up saluted the Bodhisatta and took up his cage and made off.
Innocent the deed will be.
He who plays a passive part
From all guilt is counted free.
Once upon a time when Brahmadatta reigned in Benares, the Bodhisatta [the future Buddha] came to life as a young lion. And when fully grown he lived in a wood. At this time there was near the Western Ocean a grove of palms mixed with vilva trees.
A certain hare lived here beneath a palm sapling, at the foot of a vilva tree. One day this hare, after feeding, came and lay down beneath the young palm tree. And the thought struck him, "If this earth should be destroyed, what would become of me?"
And at this very moment a ripe vilva fruit fell on a palm leaf. At the sound of it, the hare thought, "This solid earth is collapsing," and starting up he fled, without so much as looking behind him. Another hare saw him scampering off, as if frightened to death, and asked the cause of his panic flight.
"Pray, don't ask me," he said.
The other hare cried, "Pray, sir, what is it?" and kept running after him.
Then the hare stopped a moment and without looking back said, "The earth here is breaking up."
And at this the second hare ran after the other. And so first one and then another hare caught sight of him running, and joined in the chase till one hundred thousand hares all took to flight together. They were seen by a deer, a boar, an elk, a buffalo, a wild ox, a rhinoceros, a tiger, a lion, and an elephant. And when they asked what it meant and were told that the earth was breaking up, they too took to flight. So by degrees this host of animals extended to the length of a full league.
When the Bodhisatta saw this headlong flight of the animals, and heard the cause of it was that the earth was coming to an end, he thought, "The earth is nowhere coming to an end. Surely it must be some sound which was misunderstood by them. And if I don't make a great effort, they will all perish. I will save their lives."
So with the speed of a lion he got before them to the foot of a mountain, and lion-like roared three times. They were terribly frightened at the lion, and stopping in their flight stood all huddled together. The lion went in amongst them and asked why there were running away.
"The earth is collapsing," they answered.
"Who saw it collapsing?" he said.
"The elephants know all about it," they replied.
He asked the elephants. "We don't know," they said, "the lions know."
But the lions said, "We don't know, the tigers know."
The tigers said, "The rhinoceroses know."
The rhinoceroses said, "The wild oxen know."
The wild oxen, "the buffaloes."
The buffaloes, "the elks."
The elks, "the boars."
The boars, "the deer."
The deer said, "We don't know; the hares know."
When the hares were questioned, they pointed to one particular hare and said, "This one told us."
So the Bodhisatta asked, "Is it true, sir, that the earth is breaking up?"
"Yes, sir, I saw it," said the hare.
"Where," he asked, "were you living, when you saw it?"
"Near the ocean, sir, in a grove of palms mixed with vilva trees. For as I was lying beneath the shade of a palm sapling at the foot of a vilva tree, methought, 'If this earth should break up, where shall I go?' And at that very moment I heard the sound the breaking up of the earth, and I fled."
Thought the lion, "A ripe vilva fruit evidently must have fallen on a palm leaf and made a 'thud,' and this hare jumped to the conclusion that the earth was coming to an end, and ran away. I will find out the exact truth about it."
So he reassured the herd of animals, and said, "I will take the hare and go and find out exactly whether the earth is coming to an end or not, in the place pointed out by him. Until I return, do you stay here." Then placing the hare on his back, he sprang forward with the speed of a lion, and putting the hare down in the palm grove, he said, "Come, show us the place you meant."
"I dare not, my lord," said the hare.
"Come, don't be afraid," said the lion.
The hare, not venturing to go near the vilva tree, stood afar off and cried, "Yonder, sir, is the place of dreadful sound," and so saying, he repeated the first stanza:
From the spot where I did dwell
Issued forth a fearful "thud";
What it was I could not tell,
Nor what caused it understood.
After hearing what the hare said, the lion went to the foot of the vilva tree, and saw the spot where the hare had been lying beneath the shade of the palm tree, and the ripe vilva fruit that fell on the palm leaf, and having carefully ascertained that the earth had not broken up, he placed the hare on his back and with the speed of a lion soon came again to the herd of beasts.
Then he told them the whole story, and said, "Don't be afraid." And having thus reassured the herd of beasts, he let them go.
Verily, if it had not been for the Bodhisatta at that time, all the beasts would have rushed into the sea and perished. It was all owing to the Bodhisatta that they escaped death.
Alarmed at sound of fallen fruit
A hare once ran away,
The other beasts all followed suit
Moved by that hare's dismay.
They hastened not to view the scene,
But lent a willing ear
To idle gossip, and were clean
Distraught with foolish fear.
They who to Wisdom's calm delight
And Virtue's heights attain,
Though ill example should invite,
Such panic fear disdain.
Once upon a time when a king named Senaka was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was Sakka. The king Senaka was friendly with a certain naga king. This naga king, they say, left the naga world and ranged the earth seeking food. The village boys seeing him said, "This is a snake," and struck him with clods and other things.
The king, going to amuse himself in his garden, saw them, and being told they were beating a snake, said, "Don't let them beat him. Drive them away." And this was done.
So the naga king got his life, and when he went back to the naga world. He took many jewels, and coming at midnight to the king's bedchamber he gave them to him, saying, "I got my life through you." So he made friendship with the king and came again and again to see him. He appointed one of his naga girls, insatiate in pleasures, to be near the king and protect him, and he gave the king a charm, saying, "If ever you do not see her, repeat this charm."
One day the king went to the garden with the naga girl and was amusing himself in the lotus tank. The naga girl seeing a water snake quitted her human shape and made love with him. The king not seeing the girl said, "Where is she gone?" and repeated the spell. Then he saw her in her misconduct and struck her with a piece of bamboo.
She went in anger to the naga world, and when she was asked, "Why are you come?" she said, "Your friend struck me on the back because I did not do his bidding," showing the mark of the blow.
The naga king, not knowing the truth, called four naga youths and sent them with orders to enter Senaka's bedchamber and destroy him like chaff by the breath of their nostrils. They entered the chamber at the royal bedtime.
As they came in, the king was saying to the queen, "Lady, do you know where the naga girl has gone?"
"King, I do not."
"Today when we were bathing in the tank, she quitted her shape and misconducted herself with a water snake. I said, 'Don't do that,' and struck her with a piece of bamboo to give her a lesson. And now I fear she may have gone to the naga world and told some lie to my friend, destroying his goodwill to me."
The young nagas hearing this turned back at once to the naga world and told their king. He being moved went instantly to the king's chamber, told him all and was forgiven. Then he said, "In this way I make amends," and gave the king a charm giving knowledge of all sounds. "This, O king, is a priceless spell. If you give anyone this spell you will at once enter the fire and die."
The king said, "It is well," and accepted it. From that time he understood the voice even of ants.
One day he was sitting on the dais eating solid food with honey and molasses, and a drop of honey, a drop of molasses, and a morsel of cake fell on the ground. An ant seeing this comes crying, "The king's honey jar is broken on the dais, his molasses cart and cake cart are upset. Come and eat honey and molasses and cake."
The king hearing the cry laughed. The queen being near him thought, "What has the king seen that he laughs?"
When the king had eaten his solid food and bathed and sat down cross-legged, a fly said to his wife, "Come, lady, let us enjoy love."
She said, "Excuse me for a little, husband. They will soon be bringing perfumes to the king. As he perfumes himself some powder will fall at his feet. I will stay there and become fragrant, then we will enjoy ourselves lying on the king's back."
The king hearing the voice laughed again. The queen thought again, "What has he seen that he laughs?"
Again when the king was eating his supper, a lump of rice fell on the ground. The ants cried, "A wagon of rice has broken in the king's palace, and there is none to eat it."
The king hearing this laughed again. The queen took a golden spoon and helping him reflected, "Is it at the sight of me that the king laughs?"
She went to the bedchamber with the king and at bedtime she asked, "Why did you laugh, O king?"
He said, "What have you to do with why I laugh?" But being asked again and again he told her.
Then she said, "Give me your spell of knowledge."
He said, "It cannot be given." But though repulsed she pressed him again.
The king said, "If I give you this spell, I shall die."
"Even though you die, give it me."
The king, being in the power of womankind, saying, "It is well," consented and went to the park in a chariot, saying, "I shall enter the fire after giving away this spell."
At that moment Sakka, king of gods, looked down on the earth and seeing this case said, "This foolish king, knowing that he will enter the fire through womankind, is on the way; I will give him his life." So he took Suja, daughter of the Asuras, and went to Benares. He became a he-goat and made her a she-goat, and resolving that the people should not see them, he stood before the king's chariot. The king and the Sindh asses yoked in the chariot saw him, but none else saw him. For the sake of starting talk he was as if making love with the she-goat.
One of the Sindh asses yoked in the chariot seeing him said, "Friend goat, we have heard before, but not seen, that goats are stupid and shameless. But you are doing, with all of us looking on, this thing that should be done in secret and in a private place, and are not ashamed. What we have heard before agrees with this that we see."
And so he spoke the first stanza:
"Goats are stupid," says the wise man, and the words are surely true:
This one knows not he's parading what in secret he should do.
The goat hearing him spoke two stanzas:
O, sir donkey, think and realize your own stupidity,
You're tied with ropes, your jaw is wrenched, and very downcast is your eye.
When you're loosed, you don't escape, sir, that's a stupid habit too:
And that Senaka you carry, he's more stupid still than you.
The king understood the talk of both animals, and hearing it he quickly sent away the chariot. The ass hearing the goat's talk spoke the fourth stanza:
Well. sir king of goats, you fully know my great stupidity:
But how Senaka is stupid, prithee do explain to me.
The goat explaining this spoke the fifth stanza:
He who his own special treasure on his wife will throw away,
Cannot keep her faithful ever and his life he must betray.
The king hearing his words said, "King of goats, you will surely act for my advantage. Tell me now what is right for me to do."
Then the goat said, "King, to all animals no one is dearer than self. It is not good to destroy oneself and abandon the honor one has gained for the sake of anything that is dear." So he spoke the sixth stanza:
A king, like thee, may have conceived desire
And yet renounced it if his life's the cost.
Life is the chief thing. What can man seek higher?
If life's secured, desires need ne'er be crossed.
So the Bodhisatta exhorted the king. The king, delighted, asked, "King of goats, whence come you?"
"I am Sakka, O king, come to save you from death out of pity for you."
"King of gods, I promised to give her the charm. What am I to do now?"
"There is no need for the ruin of both of you. You say, 'It is the way of the craft,' and have her beaten with some blows. By this means she will not get it."
The king said, "It is well," and agreed. The Bodhisatta after exhortation to the king went to Sakka's heaven. The king went to the garden, had the queen summoned and then said, "Lady, will you have the charm?"
"Yes, lord."
"Then go through the usual custom."
"What custom?"
"A hundred stripes on the back, but you must not make a sound."
She consented through greed for the charm. The king made his slaves take whips and beat her on both sides. She endured two or three stripes and then cried, "I don't want the charm."
The king said, "You would have killed me to get the charm," and so flogging the skin off her back he sent her away. After that she could not bear to talk of it again.
Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, there was a beautiful woman of the town, called Sulasa, whose price was a thousand pieces a night. There was in the same city a robber named Sattuka, as strong as an elephant, who used to enter rich men's houses at night and plunder at will. One day he was captured. Sulasa was standing at her window when the soldiers led Sattuka, his hands bound behind his back, down the street toward the place of execution.
She fell in love with him on sight, and said, "If I can free that stout fighting man, I will give up this bad life of mine and live respectably with him." She sent a thousand pieces to the chief constable, and thus gained his freedom. They lived together in delight and harmony for some time, but after three or four months, the robber thought, "I shall never be able to stay in this one place. But one can't go empty handed. Her ornaments are worth a hundred thousand pieces. I will kill her and take them."
So he said to her one day, "Dear, when I was being hauled along by the king's men, I promised an offering to a tree deity on a mountain top, who is now threatening me because I have not paid it. Let us make an offering."
She consented to accompany her husband to the mountain top to make the offering. She should, he said, to honor the deity, wear all of her ornaments.
When they arrived at the mountain top, he revealed his true purpose: "I have not come to present the offering. I have come with the intention of killing you and going away with all your ornaments. Take them all off and make a bundle of them in your outer garment."
"Husband, why would you kill me?"
"For your money."
"Husband, remember the good I have done you. When you were being hauled along in chains, I paid a large sum and saved your life. Though I might get a thousand pieces a day, I never look at another man. Such a benefactress I am to you. Do not kill me. I will give you much money and be your slave."
But instead of accepting her entreaties, he continued his preparations to kill her.
"At least let me salute you," she said. "I am going to make obeisance to you on all four sides." Kneeling in front of him, she put her head to his foot, repeated the act at his left side, then at his right side, then from behind. Once behind him, she took hold of him, and with the strength of an elephant threw him over a cliff a hundred times as high as a man. He was crushed to pieces and died on the spot. Seeing this deed, the deity who lived on the mountain top spoke this stanza:
Wisdom at times is not confined to men;
A woman can show wisdom now and then.
So Sulasa killed the robber. When she descended from the mountain and returned to her attendants, they asked where her husband was. "Don't ask me," she said, and mounting her chariot she went on to the city.
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was King of Benares, there was in a family of a certain village of Kasi an only son named Vasitthaka. This man supported his parents, and after his mother's death, he supported his father as has been described in the introduction. But there is this difference. When the woman [Vasitthaka's wife] said, "Look there! That is your father's doing! I am constantly begging him not to do this and that, and he only gets angry!" she went on, "My lord, your father is fierce and violent, forever picking quarrels. A decrepit old man like that, tormented with disease, is bound to die soon; and I can't live in the same house with him. He will die of himself before many days are out. Well, take him to a cemetery, and dig a pit, throw him in, and break his head with the spade; and when he is dead, shovel the earth upon him, and leave him there."
At last, by dint of this dinning in his ears, said he, "Wife, to kill a man is a serious matter. How can I do it?"
"I will tell you of a way," quoth she.
"Say on, then."
"Well, my lord, at break of day, go to the place where your father sleeps. Tell him very loud, that all may hear, that a debtor of his is in a certain village, that you went and he would not pay you, and that if he dies the man will never pay at all. And say that you will both drive there together in the morning. Then at the appointed time get up, and put the animals to the cart, and take him in it to the cemetery. When you get there, bury him in a pit, make a noise as if you had been robbed, wound and wash your head, and return."
"Yes, that plan will do," said Vasitthaka. He agreed to her proposal, and got the cart ready for the journey.
Now the man had a son, a lad of seven years, but wise and clever. The lad overheard what his mother said. "My mother," thought he, "is a wicked woman, and is trying to persuade father to murder his father. I will prevent my father from doing this murder." He ran quickly, and lay down beside his grandsire.
Vasitthaka, at the time suggested by the wife, prepared the cart. "Come, father, let us get that debt!" said he, and placed his father in the cart.
But the boy got in first of all. Vasitthaka could not prevent him, so he took him to the cemetery with them. Then, placing his father and his son together in a place apart, with the cart, he got down, took spade and basket, and in a spot where he was hidden from them began to dig a square hole. The boy got down and followed him, and as though ignorant what was afoot, opened a conversation by repeating the first stanza:
No bulbs are here, no herbs for cooking meat,
No cat-mint, nor no other plant to eat.
Than father, why this pit, if need be none,
Delve in Death's acre mid the woods alone?
This his father answered by repeating the second stanza:
Thy grandsire, son, is very weak and old,
Oppressed by pain from ailments manifold.
Him will I bury in a pit today.
In such a life I could not wish him stay.
Hearing this, the boy answered by repeating a half stanza:
Thou has done sinfully in wishing this,
And for the deed, a cruel deed it is.
With these words, he caught the spade from his father's hands, and at no great distance began to dig another pit. His father approaching asked why he dug that pit, to whom he made reply by finishing the third stanza:
I too, when thou art aged, father mine,
Will treat my father as thou treatest thine;
Following the custom of the family
Deep in a pit I too will bury thee.
To this the father replied by repeating the fourth stanza:
What a harsh saying for a boy to say,
And to upbraid a father in this way!
To think that my own son would rail at me,
And to his truest friend unkind should be!
When the father had thus spoken, the wise lad recited three stanzas, one by way of answer, and two as an holy hymn:
I am not harsh, my father, nor unkind,
Nay, I regard thee with a friendly mind.
But this thou dost, this act of sin, thy son
Will have no strength to undo again, once done.
Whoso, Vasittha, hurts with ill intent
His mother or his father, innocent,
He, when the body is dissolved, shall be
In hell for his next life undoubtedly.
Whoso with meat and drink, Vasittha, shall
His mother or his father feed withal,
He, when the body is dissolved, shall be
In heaven for his next life undoubtedly.
The father, after hearing his son thus discourse, repeated the eighth stanza:
Thou art no heartless ingrate, son, I see,
But kindly hearted, O my son to me.
'Twas in obedience to thy mother's word
I thought to do this horrid deed abhorred.
Said the lad, when he heard this, "Father, women, when a wrong is done and they are not rebuked, again and again commit sin. You must bend my mother, that she may never again do such a deed as this." And he repeated the ninth stanza:
That wife of yours, that ill-conditioned dame,
My mother, she that brought me forth, that same,
Let us from out our dwelling far expel,
Lest she work other woe on thee as well.
Hearing the words of his wise son, well pleased was Vasitthaka, and saying, "Let us go, my son!" he seated himself in the cart with son and father.
Now the woman too, this sinner, was happy at heart; for, thought she, this ill-luck is out of the house now. She plastered the place with wet cow dung, and cooked a mess of rice porridge. But as she sat watching the road by which they would return, she espied them coming, "There he is, back with old ill-luck again!" thought she, much in anger. "Fie, good-for-nothing! cried she. "What, bring back the ill-luck you took away with you!"
Vasitthaka said not a word, but unyoked the cart. Then said he, "Wretch, what is that you say?" He gave her a sound drubbing, and bundled her head over heels out of doors, bidding her never darken his door again. Then he bathed his father and his son, and took a bath himself, and the three of them ate the rice porridge. The sinful woman dwelt for a few days in another house.
Then the son said to his father, "Father, for all this, my mother does not understand. Now let us try to vex her. You give out that in such and such a village lives a niece of yours, who will attend upon your father and your son and you. So you will go and fetch her. Then take flowers and perfumes, and get into your cart, and ride about the country all day, returning in the evening."
And so he did. The women in the neighbor's family told his wife this. "Have you heard," said they, "that your husband has gone to get another wife in such a place?"
"Ah, then I am undone!" quoth she, "and there is no place for me left."
But she would inquire of her son. So quickly she came to him, and fell at his feet, crying, "Save thee, I have no other refuge! Henceforward I will tend your father and grandsire as I would tend a beauteous shrine! Give me entrance into this house once more!"
"Yes, mother," replied the lad, "if you do no more as you did, I will. Be of good cheer!" And at his father's coming he repeated the tenth stanza:
That wife of yours, that ill-conditioned dame,
My mother, she that brought me forth, that same,
Like a tamed elephant, in full control,
Let her return again, that sinful soul.
So said he to his father, and then went and summoned his mother. She, being reconciled to her husband and her husband's father, was thenceforward tamed, and endued with righteousness, and watched over her husband and his father and her son. And these two, steadfastly following their son's advice, gave alms and did good deeds, and became destined to join the hosts of heaven.
At that moment a female goblin saw the child and wished to eat it, so she took hold of the dress and said, "My friend, this is a fine child, is he your son?"
Then she asked if she might give him suck, and on obtaining the mother's consent, she took him and played with him for a while and then tried to run off with him.
The other ran after her and seized hold of her, shouting, "Whither are you carrying my child?"
The goblin replied, "Why do you touch the child? He is mine."
As they wrangled they passed by the door of the hall, and the sage, hearing the noise, sent for them and asked what was the matter. When he heard the story, although he knew at once by her red unwinking eyes which one of them was a goblin, he asked them whether they would abide by his decision.
On their promising to do so, he drew a line and laid the child in the middle of the line and bade the goblin seize the child by the hands and the mother by the feet.
Then he said to them, "Lay hold of it and pull. The child is hers who can pull it over."
They both pulled, and the child, being pained while it was pulled, uttered a loud cry. Then the mother, with a heart which seemed ready to burst, let the child go and stood weeping.
The sage asked the multitude, "Is it the heart of the mother which is tender towards the child or the heart of her who is not the mother?"
They answered, "The mother's heart."
"Is she the mother who kept hold of the child or she who let it go?"
They replied, "She who let it go."
"Do you know who she is who stole the child?"
"We do not know, O sage."
"She is a goblin. She seized it in order to eat it."
When they asked how he knew that, he replied, "I knew her by her unwinking and red eyes and by her casting no shadow and by her fearlessness and want of mercy."
Then he asked her what she was, and she confessed that she was a goblin.
"Why did you seize the child?"
"To eat it."
"You blind fool," he said, "you committed sin in old time and so were born as a goblin; and now you still go on committing sin, blind fool that you are."
Then he exhorted her and established her in the five precepts and sent her away; and the mother blessed him; and saying, "May'st thou live long, my lord," took her son and went her way.
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Revised September 9, 2026.