Jataka 387
Sūci Jātaka
The Needle
as told by Eric Van Horn
originally translated by H.T. Francis and R.A. Neil, Cambridge University
originally edited by Professor Edward Byles Cowell, Cambridge University
This is one of those stories that reads like an older Indian folk tale that was rolled into the Buddhist literature. It does not read like a very Buddhist story. Also, the line about how such an act was something of a Bodhisatta secret power reads more like an overly-enthusiastic praise of the Buddha-to-be. Nonetheless, it is sort of a cute story. It is the kind of story that you might find in any ancient culture.
“Quickly threaded.” The Master told this story while he was living at Jetavana. It is about the perfection of wisdom. The occasion of the tale will be given in the Mahāummagga Jātaka (Jātaka 546, “The Great Tunnel”). The Master addressed the monk: “This is not the first time the Tathāgata has been skilled in craftsmanship.” And then he told this story from the past.
Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was the King in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born in the kingdom of Kāsi into a smith’s family. And when he grew up, he became highly skilled in the craft.
His parents were poor. And not far from their village there was another smith’s village that had a thousand houses. The principal smith of the village was a favorite of the King. This smith was rich and very wealthy. His daughter was exceedingly beautiful. She was like a nymph of heaven. She had all the auspicious marks of a lady of the land.
People came from the villages all around to have razors, axes, ploughshares, and goads made, and they often saw that maiden. When they went back to their own villages, they praised her beauty in the places where people congregated. The Bodhisatta was enticed when he heard about her. He thought, “I will make her my wife.” So he took the highest quality iron, and he made a delicate, strong needle that could pierce dice and floated on water. (This means it was of extremely fine and high quality.) Then he made a sheath for it and pierced dice with it. In the same way he made seven more sheaths, all of which nested inside of one another. The work was so fine that even the outermost sheath was barely the size of a needle. How he was able to do this cannot be told, for such work prospers only through the greatness of Bodhisattas’ knowledge.
Then he put the needle into a tube, and placing it in a case, he went to that village. He asked where the smith’s house was. He went up to the door and said, “Who will pay for a needle of this kind?” And so—standing by the smith’s house—he spoke the first stanza:
Quickly threaded, smooth and straight,
Polished with emery,
Sharp of point and delicate,
Needles! Who will buy?
After this he praised it again and spoke the second stanza:
Quickly threaded, strong and straight,
Rounded properly,
Iron they will penetrate,
Needles! Who will buy?
At that moment the maiden was fanning her father with a palm leaf as he lay on a little bed. This was to alleviate discomfort after his early meal. When she heard the Bodhisatta’s sweet voice, it was if she had been sickened by a fresh lump of meat and had the discomfort extinguished by a thousand pots of water. She said, “Who is this hawking needles with such a sweet voice in a village of smiths? FWhy has he come? I will find out.” So laying down the palm fan, she went out and spoke with him, standing on their terrace. The purpose of Bodhisattas prospers. It was for her sake that he had gone to that village.
She spoke with him and said, “Young man, people from all over the kingdom come to this village for needles and the like. It is folly that you wish to sell needles in a village of smiths. You can praise your needle all day, but no one will buy it from you. If you wish to get your price, go to another village.” And she spoke two stanzas:
Our hooks are sold, both up and down,
Men know our needles well.
We all are smiths in this good town,
Needles! Who can sell?
In iron work we have renown,
In weapons we excel.
We all are smiths in this good town,
Needles! Who can sell?
The Bodhisatta heard her words and said, “Lady, you say this not knowing and in ignorance.” And so he spoke two stanzas:
Though all are smiths in this good town,
Yet skill can needles sell.
For masters in the craft will own
A first-rate article.
Lady, if once your father know
This needle made by me,
On me your hand he would bestow
And all his property.
The head smith heard their conversation. He called to his daughter and asked, “Who is that to whom you are speaking.” “Father, it is a man selling needles.” “Then bring him here.” She brought the Bodhisatta to her father. The Bodhisatta saluted the head smith. The head smith asked, “Of what village are you?” “I am of such a village and the son of a smith.” “Why have you come here?” “To sell needles.” “Come, let us see your needle.”
The Bodhisatta, wishing to declare his skill to all of the smiths, said, “Is not something seen in the midst of all better than one seen by only one person?” “You are quite right, friend.” So he summoned all of the smiths together, and in their midst he said, “Sir, show us the needle.” “Master, have an anvil brought and a bronze dish full of water.” This was done. Then the Bodhisatta took the needle tube from the wrapper and gave it to them.
The head smith took it and asked, “Is this the needle?” “No, it is not the needle, it is the sheath.” The head smith examined it but he could not see the end nor tip. The Bodhisatta took it from him. He drew off the outer sheath with his finger nail and showed it to everyone there. He put the next sheath in the master’s hand and the outer sheath at his feet. Again when the master said, “This is the needle, I suppose,” he answered, “This, too, is a needle sheath.” then he struck it off with his finger nail. And so he laid six sheaths in succession at the head smith’s feet and said, “Here is the needle.” The thousand smiths snapped their fingers in delight and waved cloths in appreciation.
Then the head smith asked, “Friend, how strong is this needle?” “Master, have this anvil raised up by a strong man and a water vessel set under the anvil. Then strike the needle straight into the anvil.” He had this done and struck the needle by the point into the anvil. The needle split the anvil. It landed on the surface of the water, not moving a hair’s breadth up or down. All the smiths said, “We have never heard—even by rumor—that there are such smiths as this.” So they snapped their fingers and waved a thousand cloths in celebration. The head smith called his daughter, and in the midst of the assembly he said, “This maiden is a suitable match for you.” He poured water on the Bodhisatta’s hands and gave her away. (Pouring water over someone’s hands consummates the agreement.) And afterwards when the head smith died, the Bodhisatta became the head smith in the village.
Figure: The needle splits the anvil!
After the lesson, the Master taught the Four Noble Truths. Then he identified the birth: “The smith’s daughter was Rāhula’s mother, and I was the clever young smith.”
(Rāhula was the Buddha’s son, and his mother—and the Buddha’s wife from his lay life—was named “Yasodharā.”)
