Kaṇhadīpāyana Jātaka

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Vamsa, there reigned a King named Kosambika in Kosambī (a prosperous city in India which became known for a dispute among the monks). At that time there were two brahmins in a certain town. Each possessed an estate worth 80 crores (800 million rupees). They were dear friends to each other. But they saw the mischief that lies in sensual desire. So they distributed a great deal in almsgiving, forsook the world, and amid the weeping and wailing of many people, they departed to the Himalaya. There they built a hermitage. For 50 years they lived as mendicants, feeding on the fruits and roots of the forests when they were able to obtain them. However, neither one of them was able to attain a state of deep meditation.

After those 50 years had passed, they went on a pilgrimage through the country side to get salt and seasoning. They came to the kingdom of Kāsi. In a certain town of this kingdom there lived a householder named Maṇḍavya. He had been a lay friend in his householder days to the mendicant Dīpāyana. Our two friends went to this Maṇḍavya. When he saw them, he was ecstatic. He built a hut of leaves for them and provided them both with the four requisites of life (food, shelter, clothing, and medicine). For three or four seasons they lived there. Then they took leave of him and proceeded on their pilgrimage to Benares. There they lived in a cemetery grown over with atimuttaka trees (mountain ebony). Dīpāyana then returned to his old comrade again. He and Maṇḍavya lived together in the same place. (This is somewhat confusing. Maṇḍavya is the name of one of the mendicants and also of the householder. Dīpāyana is the name of the other mendicant.)

Now it happened that one day a robber committed robbery in the town, and he was running off with his spoils. The owners of the house and the watchmen aroused and cried out “Thief!” But the thief escaped through the sewer. And as he ran swiftly by the cemetery, he dropped his loot at the door of the mendicant’s hut of leaves. When the owners saw this bundle, they cried, “Ah, you rascal! You are a robber by night, and in the daytime you go about in the disguise of a mendicant!” So, with reviling and blows, they carried him into the presence of the King.

The King did not bother to question him. He only said, “Off with him. Impale him on a stake!” They took him to the cemetery and lifted him up on a stake of acacia wood. But the stake would not pierce the mendicant’s body. Next they brought a nimb (neem, a type of mahogany) stake, but this too would not pierce him. Then they tried an iron spike, but even that would not pierce his body.

The mendicant wondered what past deed of his could have caused this misfortune. He surveyed the past, and there arose in him the knowledge of his former existences. And by this—as he surveyed the past—he saw what he had done long ago. It was this—the piercing of a fly upon a splinter of ebony.

It is said that in a former existence he had been the son of a carpenter. Once he went to the place where his father cut down trees. And with an ebony splinter, he pierced a fly as if impaling it. And it was just this misdeed that manifested when he came to that supreme moment. He saw that here, then, was no getting free from his misdeeds. So he said to the King’s men, “If you wish to impale me, use a stake of ebony wood.” This they did. They spat on him, and leaving a guard to watch him, they went away.

From a place of hiding the watchmen observed all that came to pass. Now Dīpāyana thought “It has been a long time since I saw my comrade the mendicant.” So he went to find him. He heard that he had been hanging for the entire day, impaled by the roadside. He went up to him, and standing on one side, he asked what he had done. “Nothing,” he said. “Can you guard against ill will, or not?” he asked. “Good friend,” he said, “neither against those who have seized me, nor against the King, either, is there any ill will in my mind.” “If that is so, the shadow of one so virtuous is delightful to me.” And with these words, he sat down by the side of the stake. Then gouts of gore from Maṇḍavya’s body fell on him. As they fell upon his golden skin, they dried and became black spots. Because of this, hereafter he was known as Kaṇha or Black Dīpāyana. And he sat there all night.

On the next day the watchmen went and told the King what had happened. The King said, “I have acted rashly.” He hurried to the spot and asked Dīpāyana what made him sit by the stake. “Great King,” he answered, “I sit here to guard him. But tell me, what has he done, or what has he left undone. Why do you treat him in this way?” The King explained that the matter had not been properly investigated. He replied, “Great King, a king ought to act with discretion. An idle layman who indulges pleasure is not good.” And with other such admonitions he lectured him.

When the King found that Maṇḍavya was innocent, he ordered the stake to be drawn out. But try as they would, it would not come out. Maṇḍavya said, “Sire, I have received this dire disgrace for a fault done long ago, and it is impossible to draw the stake from my body. But if you wish to spare my life, bring a saw and cut it off flush with the skin.” So the King had this done, and part of the stake remained in his body. For on that previous occasion they say that he took a little piece of diamond and pierced the fly’s duct so that it did not die then, nor until the proper end of its life. And therefore the man also did not die, they say.

The King saluted these mendicants and begged for their forgiveness. He settled them both in his park and looked after them there. And from that time on Maṇḍavya was called Maṇḍavya with the Peg. He lived in this place near the King. And Dīpāyana, after healing his friend’s wound, went back to his friend Maṇḍavya the householder. When they saw him enter the leaf-hut, they told the story to his friend. When he heard it, he was delighted. He took his wife and child, and with plenty of scents, garlands, oil, and sugar, and so forth, he went to the leaf hut. There he greeted Dīpāyana. He washed and anointed his feet. And giving him something to drink, they sat listening to the tale of Maṇḍavya of the Peg.

Then his son, a young man named Yañña-datta, was playing with a ball at the end of the covered walk. A snake lived there in an ant-hill. The lad threw the ball on the ground. It ran into the hole of the ant-hill and fell on the snake. Not knowing this, the lad put his hand into the hole. The enraged snake bit the boy’s hand. Down he fell in a faint because of the strength of the snake’s poison. His parents, finding their son snake-bitten, lifted him up and took him to the mendicant. They lay him at the mendicant’s feet and said, “Sir, holy people know about medicines and charms. Please cure our son.” “I know no cures. I do not practice the physician’s trade.” “You are a holy man. Have pity then, sir, upon this boy, and do the Act of Truth.” “Good,” said the mendicant, “I will do an Act of Truth.” And laying hands upon the head of Yañña-datta, he recited the first stanza:

“Seven days serene in heart

Pure I lived, desiring merit.

Since then, for fifty years apart,

Self-absorbed, I do declare it.

Here, unwillingly, I live,

May this truth a blessing give.

Poison foiled, the lad revive!”

No sooner had he done this Act of Truth, then the poison came out from the chest of Yañña-datta and sank into the ground. The boy opened his eyes, and with a look at his parents, he cried “Mother!” Then he turned over and lay still. Then Black Dīpāyana said to the father, “I have used my power. Now it is the time to use yours.” He answered, “So I will do an Act of Truth.” And laying a hand upon his son’s breast, he repeated the second stanza:

“If for gifts I cared no lot,

All chance comers entertaining,

Yet still the good and wise knew not

I was my true self restraining.

If unwillingly I give,

May this truth a blessing give,

Poison foiled, the lad revive!”

After the doing this Act of Truth, the poison came out from his back and sank into the ground. The lad sat up, but he could not stand. Then the father said to the mother, “Lady, I have used my power. Now it is your turn to cause your son to arise and walk by an Act of Truth.” She said, “I, too, have a Truth to tell, but I cannot declare it in your presence.” “Lady,” he said, “by all and any means make my son whole.” She answered, “Very well,” and her Act of Truth is given in the third stanza:

“The serpent that bit you today

In yonder hole, my son,

And this your father, are, I say,

In my indifference, one.

May this Truth a blessing give,

Poison foiled, the lad revive!”

No sooner had this Act of Truth been done, then all the poison fell and sank into the ground. And Yañña-datta, rising with all his body purged of the poison, began to play. When the son had gotten up, Maṇḍavya asked what was in Dīpāyana’s mind by reciting the fourth stanza:

“They leave the world who are serene, subdued,

Save Kaṇha, all in no unwilling mood.

What makes you shrink, Dīpāyana, and why

Unwilling walk the path of sanctity?”

To answer this, the other repeated the fifth stanza:

“He leaves the world, and then again turns back,

‘An idiot, a fool!’ so might one think.

’Tis this that makes me shrink,

Thus I walk holy, though the wish I lack,

The cause why I do well, is this—

Praised of the wise the good man’s dwelling is.”

Having explained his own thought, he asked Maṇḍavya yet again in the sixth stanza:

“This your house was like a mere,

Food and drink in store supplying.

Sages, travelers, brahmins here

Thirst and hunger satisfying.

Did you fear some scandal, still

Giving, yet against your will?”

(A “mere” is apparently a pub.)

Then Maṇḍavya explained his thoughts in the seventh stanza:

“Sire and grandsire holy were,

Lords of gifts most free in giving.

And I followed with all care

Our ancestral way of living.

Lest degenerate I should be

I gave gifts unwillingly.”

After saying this, Maṇḍavya asked his wife a question in the eighth stanza:

“When, a young girl, with undeveloped sense,

I brought you from your home to be my wife.

You did not tell me your indifference,

How without love you lived all your life.

Then why, O fair-limbed lady, did you stay

And live with me in this unloving way?”

And she replied to him by repeating the ninth. stanza:

“’Tis not the custom in this family

For wedded wife to take a newer mate,

Nor ever has been. And this custom I

Would keep, lest I be called degenerate.

T’was fear of such report that made me stay

And live with you in this unloving way.”

But once she said this, a thought passed through her mind: “I have told my secret to my husband, a secret never told before! He will be angry with me. I will beg his pardon in the presence of this mendicant, our confidant.” And to this end she repeated the tenth stanza:

“Now I have spoken what should be unsaid.

For our son’s sake may it be pardoned.

Stronger than parents’ love is nothing here.

Our Yañña-datta lives, who was but dead!”

“Arise, lady,” said Maṇḍavya, “I forgive you. From now on, do not be hard on me. I will never grieve you.” And addressing Maṇḍavya the Bodhisatta said, “In gathering ill-gotten gains, and in disbelieving that when you give liberally, the deed is a seed that brings fruit, in this you have done wrong. In the future, believe in the merit of gifts and give them.” This the other promised, and in his turn he said to the Bodhisatta, “Sir, you have yourself done wrong in accepting our gifts when walking the path of holiness against your will. Now in order that your deeds may bear abundant fruit, in the future walk in holiness with a tranquil heart and pure, full of ecstatic joy.” Then they took leave of the Great Being and departed.

From that time forward the wife loved her husband. Maṇḍavya gave gifts with faith and a tranquil heart. And the Bodhisatta, dispelling his unwillingness, cultivated meditative joy, and he became destined for Brahma’s heaven.