Padakusalamāṇava Jātaka

Once upon a time in the reign of Brahmadatta, King of Benares, his Queen consort was unfaithful. The King questioned her, and swearing an oath she said, “If I have been unfaithful to you, I will be reborn as a female Yakkha with a face like a horse.” So after her death, she became a horse-faced Yakkha.

She lived in a rock cave in a vast forest at the foot of a mountain. She caught and devoured the men who traveled the road leading from the East to the Western border. After serving Vessavaṇa (lord of the Yakkhas) for three years, it is said, she got permission to eat people in a certain area. It was thirty leagues long by five leagues wide.

Now one day a rich, wealthy, handsome brahmin, accompanied by a large entourage, ascended that road. The Yakkha, on seeing him, rushed upon him with a loud laugh, and his attendants all fled. With the speed of the wind she seized the brahmin and threw him on her back. She entered the cave, and in coming in contact with the man, she developed an affection for him, and instead of devouring him, she made him her husband, and they lived harmoniously together.

After that, whenever she captured men, the Yakkha also took their clothes and rice and oil and the like, and served him with various delicacies while she would eat the men’s flesh. And whenever she went away, she was afraid that he would escape, so she closed the mouth of the cave with a huge stone before leaving. And while they were living amicably together in this way, the Bodhisatta passing from his former existence was conceived in the womb of the Yakkha by the brahmin. After ten months she gave birth to a son, and filled with love for the brahmin and her child, she fed them both. By and bye when the boy had grown up, she also put him inside the cave with his father and then closed the door whenever she left.

Now one day the Bodhisatta—knowing she had gone away—removed the stone and let his father out. When she returned, she asked who had removed the stone. He said, “I did, mother. We cannot sit in darkness.” And because of her love for her child, she did not say another word.

Now one day the Bodhisatta asked his father, “Dear father, your mouth is different from my mother’s. What is the reason?” “My son, your mother is a Yakkha. She lives on man’s flesh. But you and I are men.” “If so, why do we live here? Come, we will go to the realm of men.” “My dear boy, if we try to escape, your mother will kill us both.” But the Bodhisatta reassured his father and said, “Do not be afraid, dear father. Returning to the realm of men will be my responsibility.”

On the next day, when his mother had gone away, he took his father, and they fled. When the Yakkha returned and missed them, she rushed out with the swiftness of the wind. She caught them and said, “O brahmin, why do you run away? Is there anything that you lack here?” “My dear,” he said, “do not be angry with me. Your son carried me off with him.” And without another word, because of her love for her child, she comforted them. She headed back to her dwelling place with them, arriving after a flight of some days. The Bodhisatta thought, “My mother must have a limited sphere of action. Suppose I were to ask her the limits of the space over which her authority extends. Then I will escape by going beyond this.” So one day, sitting respectfully near his mother, he said, “My dear, that which belongs to a mother comes to the children. Tell me what is the limit of our ground.” She told him all the landmarks—mountains and such—in all directions. She pointed out the space to her son, thirty leagues long and five leagues broad. She said, “Consider it to be so much, my son.”

After several days had passed, when his mother had gone to the forest, he put his father on his shoulder. He rushing on with the swiftness of the wind. And by the hints given to him by his mother, he reached the bank of the river that was the limit. On her return, the mother saw that they were missing, and she pursued them. The Bodhisatta carried his father into the middle of the river, and she came and stood on the river bank. When she saw that they had passed beyond the limits of her sphere, she stopped where she was and cried, “My dear child, come here with your father. What is my offence? In what respect do things not go well with you? Come back, my lord.”

But the brahmin crossed the river. She prayed to her child, also, and said, “Dear son, do not act in this way. Come back again.” “Mother, we are men. You are a Yakkha. We cannot always live with you.” “And will you ever return?” “No, mother.” “Then if you refuse to return—as it is painful to live in the world of men, and they who do not know any craft cannot live—I am skilled in the lore of the philosopher’s stone. By its power, even after a lapse of twelve years, one can follow the steps of those that have gone away. This will prove a livelihood to you. Take, my child, this invaluable charm.” And though she was overcome by such great sorrow, through love of her child, she gave him the charm.

The Bodhisatta, still standing in the river, folded his hands tortoise-wise. He took the charm, and saluting his mother, he cried, “Good-bye, mother.” The Yakkha said, “If you do not return, my son, I cannot bear to live.” She struck her breast, and straightway—in sorrow for her son—her heart was broken, and she fell down dead on the spot.

The Bodhisatta, when he saw that his mother was dead, called to his father. They went and made a funeral pile and burned her body. After extinguishing the flames, he made offerings of various colored flowers, and with weeping and lamentation, he returned with his father to Benares.

It was reported to the King, “There is a youth who is skilled in tracking footsteps. He is standing at the door.” And when the King told him to enter, he came in and saluted the King. “My friend,” he said, “do you know any craft?” “My lord, I can follow the track of one who has stolen any property twelve years ago, and I can catch him.” “Then enter my service,” said the King. “I will give you a thousand gold coins every day.” And the King had him paid a thousand gold coins every day.

Now one day the family priest said to the King, “My lord, because this youth does nothing by the power of his art, we do not know whether he has any skill or not. We will test him.” The King readily agreed. They told the keepers of the various treasures, and taking the most valuable jewels, they descended from the terrace. After making their way three times around the palace, they placed a ladder on the top of the wall and descended to the outside. Then they entered the Hall of Justice, and after sitting there, they returned. Once again they placed the ladder on the wall and descended into the city. Finally, coming to the edge of a tank, they marched three times solemnly around it, dropped their treasure into the tank, and then climbed back to the terrace.

On the next day there was a great outcry. The men said, “Treasure has been stolen from the palace!” The King pretended ignorance. He summoned the Bodhisatta and said, “Friend, valuable treasure has been stolen from the palace. We must find it.” “My lord, for one who is able to follow the traces of robbers and recover treasure stolen even twelve years ago, there is nothing marvelous in recovering stolen property after a single day and night. I will find it. Do not be troubled.” “Then recover it, friend.” “Very well, my lord,” he said.

Saluting his mother’s memory, he repeated the spell, still standing on the terrace. He said, “My lord, I can see the steps of two thieves.” And following in the steps of the King and the priest, he entered the royal closet. From there he descended from the terrace, and after making a circuit of the palace three times, he drew near the wall. Standing on it he said, “My lord, starting in this place from the wall, I see footsteps in the air. Bring me a ladder.” And having had a ladder placed for him against the wall, he descended it. And still following in their tracks, he came to the Hall of Justice. Then returning to the palace, he had the ladder planted against the wall, and descending it, he came to the tank. After marching around it three times he said, “My lord, the thieves went down into this tank.” And taking out the treasure as if he had deposited it there himself, he gave it to the King and said, “My lord, these two thieves are men of distinction. By this way they climbed up into the palace.”

The people snapped their fingers in a high state of delight, and there was a great waving of cloths. The King thought, "I think that this youth, knows the place where the thieves put the treasure by following in their steps, but he cannot catch the thieves.” Then he said, “You brought us the property carried off by the thieves, but will you be able to catch the thieves and bring them to us?” “My lord, the thieves are here. They are not far off.” “Who are they?” “Great King, let any one you like be the thief. You recovered your treasure. Why do you want the thieves? Do not ask that.” “Friend, I pay you a thousand gold coins a day. Bring the thieves to me.” “Sire, when the treasure is recovered, why do you need the thieves?” “It is better, friend, for us to catch the thieves than to recover the treasure.” “Then, sire, I will not tell you who the thieves are. But I will tell you something that happened long ago. If you are wise, you will know what it means.” And then he told this story from the past.

Once upon a time, sire, a certain dancer named Pāṭala lived not far from Benares in a village on the river’s bank. One day he went into Benares with his wife to earn money by his singing and dancing. At the end of his entertainment, he procured some rice and strong drink. When he was on his way back to his own village, he came to the bank of the river. He sat down watching the freshly flowing stream and drank his strong drink. When he was drunk and unconscious of his weakness, he said, “I will fasten my lute around my neck and go down into the river.”

He took his wife by the hand and went down into the river. The water entered into the holes of the lute, and then the weight of his lute made him begin to sink. But when his wife saw he was sinking, she let go of him and went up out of the river and stood on the bank. The dancer Pāṭala began to rise and then fall. His belly became swollen from swallowing the water. So his wife thought, “My husband is going to die. I will beg of him one song, and by singing this in the midst of the people, I will earn my living.” So she said, “My lord, you are sinking in the water. Give me just one song, and I will earn my living by it.” And she spoke this stanza:

O Pāṭala, by Ganges swept away,

Famous in dance and, skilled in roundelay,

Pāṭala, all hail! as you are born along,

Sing me, I pray, some little snatch of song.

Then the dancer Pāṭala said, "My dear, how shall I give you a little song? The water that has been the salvation of the people is killing me," and he spoke a stanza:

Wherewith are sprinkled fainting souls in pain,

I straight am killed. My refuge proved my bane.

The Bodhisatta—in explanation of this stanza—said, “Sire, even as water is the refuge of the people, so it also is with kings. If danger arises from them, who will prevent that danger? This, sire, is a secret matter. I have told a story that can be understood by the wise. Understand it, sire.” “Friend, I do not understand a story hidden like this. Catch the thieves and bring them to me.” Then the Bodhisatta said, “Then hear this, sire, and understand.” And he told yet another story from the past.

“My lord, formerly in a village outside the city gates of Benares, a potter used to fetch clay for his pottery. He always got it from the same place where he had he dug a deep pit inside a mountain cave. Now one day when he was getting the clay, an unseasonable storm cloud sprang up. This was followed by a heavy rain, and the flood overwhelmed him and threw him down the side of the pit. The man's head was broken by it. Loudly lamenting, he spoke this stanza:

That by which seeds do grow, man to sustain,

Has crushed my head. My refuge proved my bane.

“For even as the mighty earth, sire, which is the refuge of the people, broke the potter’s head, even so when a king, who like the mighty earth, is the refuge of the whole world, rises up and plays the thief, who shall prevent the danger? Can you, sire, recognize the thief hidden under the guise of this story?” “Friend, we do not want any hidden meaning. Say, ‘Here is the thief,’ and catch him and hand him over to me.”

Still protecting the King and without saying in words, “You are the thief,” he told yet another story.

In this very city, sire, a certain man’s house was on fire. He ordered another man to go into the house and bring out his property. When this man entered the house and was bringing out his goods, the door shut. Blinded with smoke and unable to find his way out and tormented by the rising flame, he remained inside lamenting, and he spoke this stanza:

That which destroys the cold, and parches grain,

Consumes my limbs. My refuge proves my bane.

“A man, O King, who like fire was the refuge of the people, stole the bundle of jewels. Do not ask me about the thief.” “Friend, just bring me the thief.” And once again, without telling the King that he was the thief, he told yet another story.

Once, sire, in this very city a man ate to excess and was unable to digest his food. Maddened with pain and lamenting he spoke this stanza:

Food on which countless brahmins life sustain

Killed me outright. My refuge proved my bane.

“One, who like rice, sire, was the refuge of the people, stole the property. When that is recovered, why ask about the thief?” “Friend, if you can, bring me the thief.” To make the King understand, he told yet another story.

Formerly, sire, in this very city a wind arose and broke a certain man’s limbs. Lamenting he spoke this stanza:

Wind that in June wise men by prayer would gain,

My limbs do break. My refuge proved my bane.

“Thus, sire, did danger arise from my refuge. Understand this story.” “Friend, bring me the thief.” To make the King understand, he told him yet another story.

Once upon a time, sire, on the side of the Himālayas, there grew a tree with forked branches. It was the dwelling place of countless birds. Two of its boughs rubbed against one another. From this smoke arose, and sparks of fire fell. On seeing this the chief bird uttered this stanza:

Flame issues from the tree where we have lain,

Scatter, you birds. Our refuge proves our bane.

“For just as, sire, the tree is the refuge of birds, so is the King the refuge of his people. Should he play the thief, who will prevent the danger? Take note of this, sire.” “Friend, only bring me the thief.” Then he told the King yet another story.

In a village of Benares, sire, on the western side of a gentleman’s house, there was a river full of savage crocodiles. In this family was an only son, who on the death of his father, watched over his mother. Against his will, his mother brought home a gentleman’s daughter to be his wife. At first she showed affection for her mother-in-law. But later, after she was blessed with numerous sons and daughters of her own, she wanted to get rid of her. Her own mother also lived in the same house. When she was in her husband’s presence, she found all kinds of faults with her mother-in-law in order to prejudice him against her.

She said to him, “I cannot possibly support your mother. You must kill her.” And when he answered, “Murder is a serious matter. How am I to kill her?” She said, “When she falls asleep, we will take her, bed and all, and throw her into the crocodile river. Then the crocodiles will make an end of her.” “And where is your mother?” he said. “She sleeps in the same room as your mother.” “Then go and put a mark on the bed on which she lies by fastening a rope to it.” She did so and said, “I have put a mark on it.” The husband said, "Let the people go to bed first.” And he lay down pretending to go to sleep. Then he went and fastened the rope onto his mother-in-law’s bed.

He woke up his wife, and they went together. And lifting her up, bed and all, they threw her into the river. The crocodiles killed and ate her. On the next day she found out what had happened to her own mother and said, “My lord, my mother is dead, now let us kill yours.” “Very well then,” he said. “We will make a funeral pile in the cemetery and cast her into the fire and kill her.” So the man and his wife took her while she was asleep to the cemetery and left her there. Then the husband said to his wife, “Did you bring any fire?” “I forgot to, my lord.” “Then go and get it.” “I dare not go alone, my lord, and if you go, I dare not stay here. We will go together.” When they were gone, the old woman was awakened by the cold wind. And finding that she was in a cemetery, she thought, “They want to kill me. They have gone to get fire. They do not know how strong I am.” And she stretched a corpse out on the bed and covered it with a cloth. Then she ran away and hid in a mountain cave. The husband and wife brought the fire, and assuming the corpse to be the old woman, they burned it and went away.

Now a certain robber had left his bundle in this mountain cave. And coming back to fetch, it he saw the old woman and thought, “This must be a Yakkha. My bundle is possessed by goblins.” So he fetched a devil doctor. The doctor uttered a spell and entered the cave. Then she said to him, “I am no Yakkha. Come, we will enjoy this treasure together.” “How is this to be believed?” “Place your tongue on my tongue.” He did so, and she bit a piece off his tongue and let it drop to the ground. The devil doctor thought, “This is certainly a Yakkha,” and he cried out loud and ran away with blood dripping from his tongue.

On the next day the old woman put on a clean undergarment and took the bundle of all sorts of jewels and went home. When her daughter-in-law saw her, she asked, “Where, mother, did you get this?” “My dear, everyone who is burned on a wooden pile in this cemetery receives the same.” “My dear mother, can I, too, get this?” “If you become like me, you will.” So without saying a word to her husband, in her desire for a lot of ornaments to wear, she went there and burned herself. On the next day her husband missed her. He said, “My dear mother, where is your daughter-in law?” Then she reproached him saying, “Fie! You bad man, how do the dead come back?” And she uttered this stanza:

A maiden fair, with wreath upon her head,

Fragrant with sandal oil, by me was led

A happy bride within my home to reign.

She drove me forth. My refuge proved my bane.

“As the daughter-in-law, sire, is to the mother-in-law, so is the king a refuge to his people. If danger arises from that, what can one do? Take note of this, sire.” “Friend, I do not understand the things you tell me. Just bring me the thief.” He thought, “I will shield the King,” and he told yet another story.

Of old, sire, in this very city, in answer to his prayer, a man had a son. At his birth the father was full of joy and gladness at the thought of having a son, and he cherished him. When the boy had grown up, he wedded him to a wife. And by and by he himself grew old and could no longer do any work. So his son said, “You can no longer do any work. You must leave,” and he drove him out of the house. With great difficulty he kept himself alive on alms, and lamenting his situation, he uttered this stanza:

He for whose birth I longed, and longed in vain,

Drives me from home. My refuge proved my bane.

“Just as an aged father, sire, ought to be cared for by an able-bodied son, so, too, ought all the people be protected by the king. And the danger now present has arisen from the king who is the guardian of all men. Know, sire, from this fact that the thief is so and so.” “I do not understand this, be it fact or no fact. Either bring me the thief, or you yourself must be the thief.” In this way the King again and again questioned the youth. So he said to him, “Would you, sire, really like the thief to be caught?” “Yes, friend.” “Then I will proclaim it in the midst of the assembly who is the thief.” “Do so, friend.” On hearing his words he thought, “This King does not allow me to protect him. So now I will catch the thief.” And when the people had gathered together, he addressed them and spoke these stanzas:

Let town and country folk assembled all give ear,

Lo! water is ablaze. From safety comes the fear.

The plundered realm may well of King and priest complain,

Henceforth protect yourselves. Your refuge proves your bane.

When they heard what he said, the people thought, “The King, even though he should protect others, threw the blame on someone else. With his own hands he placed his treasure in the tank, then he went about looking for the thief. So that he will not go on playing the part of a thief in the future, we will kill this wicked King.” So they rose up with sticks and clubs in their hands, and then and there they beat the King and the priest until they died. Then they anointed the Bodhisatta and set him on the throne.