Jataka 472
Mahā Paduma Jātaka
The Great Lotus Prince
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 the famous stories from the Buddhist past. In it, a woman named Ciñcamāṇavikā is hired by rival religious groups to discredit the Buddha. She pretends to have been impregnated by him. There are a number of variations on this story, but in all of them she comes to an untimely demise.
In the Jātaka, the Bodhisatta is saved by the nagas (serpents). Who says there’s never a naga around when you need them?
“No king should.” The Master told this story when he was staying at Jetavana. It is about Ciñcamāṇavikā.
When the Dasabala (Buddha) first attained supreme wisdom, and after the number of his disciples had grown, and after innumerable gods and men had been born into heavenly states, and the seeds of goodness had been cast abroad, he was shown great honor and great gifts were given to him. His rivals were like fireflies after sunrise. They received no honors, and they were not given gifts. They stood in the street and cried out to the people, “What, is the ascetic Gotama the Buddha? We are Buddhas also! Do only gifts that are given to him bring great fruit? Gifts that are given to us also bring great fruit for you! Give to us also, work for us!” But cry as they would, they received no honor or gifts. Then they got together in secret and consulted with each other. “How can we cast a stain upon Gotama the ascetic in the face of men and put an end to his honor and his gifts?”
Now there was at that time in Sāvatthi a certain sister. She was named Ciñcamānavikā. She was slender, fair, and full of grace. Brilliant rays of light shone from her body. Someone from the counsel of cruelty shouted, “With the help of Ciñcamāṇavikā we will cast a stain upon the ascetic Gotama. We will put an end to the honor and the gifts that he receives.” “Yes,” they all agreed, “that is the way to do it.”
She went to the monastery of the rivals and greeted them, and there she stood still. The conspirators said nothing to her. She said, “What blemish is there in me? Three times I have greeted you!” She said it once again. “Sirs, what blemish is in me? Why do you not speak to me?” They replied, “Do you not know, sister, that Gotama the ascetic is going about and doing us harm, cutting off all the honor and generosity that used to be shown to us?” “I did not know it, sirs. But what can I do?” “If you wish us well, sister, you can bring a stain upon the ascetic Gotama. In so doing, you can put an end to his honor and the gifts he receives.” She replied, “Very well, sirs. Leave that to me. Do not trouble yourselves about it.” And with these words, she left.
After that, she used all her feminine skill in deceit. When the people of Sāvatthi had heard the Dharma and were leaving Jetavana, she used to go to there. She wore a robe dyed with a deep red color. She carried fragrant garlands in her hands. When anyone asked her, “Where are you going at this hour?” she would reply "What business of it is yours?” She spent the night in the conspirators’ monastery, which was close by Jetavana. And in the early morning when the Buddha’s lay supporters arrived from the city to pay their respects, she would meet them as though she had spent the night in Jetavana. If anyone asked where she had stayed, she would answer, “What are my comings and goings to you?” But after six weeks, she replied, “I spent the night in Jetavana with Gotama, the ascetic, in a fragrant cell.” Then the unconverted began to wonder, could this be true or not? After three or four months, she bound bandages around her belly and made it look as though she were pregnant. Then she declared that she was with child by the ascetic Gotama. She made blind fools believe. After eight or nine months, she fastened pieces of wood in a bundle around her. She had her hands, feet, and back beaten with the jawbone of an ox to produce swelling. She looked tired and worn.
One evening the Tathāgata was sitting on the splendid seat of preaching and was teaching the Dharma. She went among the throng, and standing in front of the Tathāgata, she said, “O great ascetic! You preach indeed to great multitudes. Your voice is sweet, and the lip that covers your teeth is soft. But you have got me with child, and my time is near. And yet you do not assign me a chamber for the childbirth. You give me no ghee nor oil. And what you will not do yourself, you do not ask someone else to do. You do not ask the King of Kosala or Anāthapiṇḍika or the great lay sister Visākhā. Why do you not tell one of them to do what should be done for me? You know how to take your pleasure, but you do not know how to care for that which will be born!” And so, in this way she ridiculed the Tathāgata in the midst of the congregation as one might try to besmirch the moon’s face with a handful of filth.
The Tathāgata stopped his discourse, and crying like a lion in clarion tones, he said, “Sister, whether what you say is true or false, only you and I know.” “Yes, truly,” she said, “this happened through something that only you and I know about.”
Just at that moment, Sakka’s throne became hot. Reflecting, he saw the reason. “Ciñcamāṇavikā is accusing the Tathāgata of something that is not true.” And so, determined to clear up the matter, he went off with four gods in his company. The gods took on the shape of mice. Together they gnawed through the cords that bound the bundle of wood. A puff of wind blew up the robe she wore, and the bundle of wood was exposed and fell at her feet. This cut off the toes of both her feet. The people cried out, “A witch is accusing the Supreme Buddha!” They spat on her head and drove her out of Jetavana with clubs and rocks in their hands. And as she passed beyond the range of the Tathāgata’s vision, the great earth yawned and a huge chasm opened. Flames flared up from the lowest hell, and she fell to the lowest hell to be reborn there. The honor and gifts of the other conspirators ceased, and those of the Dasabala grew even more abundant.
On the next day they were discussing this in the Dharma Hall. “Brother, Ciñcamāṇavikā falsely accused the Supreme Buddha, great in virtue, worthy of all gifts! and she came to utter destruction.” The Master entered, and asked what they were discussing as they sit there together. They told him. He said, “Not only now, brothers, has this woman falsely accused me and come to utter destruction. It was just the same before.” And so saying, he told them this story from the past.
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was King of Benares, the Bodhisatta was born as the son of his chief Queen. His countenance was like a full-blown lotus. They named him Paduma-Kumāra, the Lotus Prince. When he grew up he was educated in all of the arts and accomplishments. Then his mother departed this life. The King took another consort, and he appointed his son viceroy.
One day the King prepared to set out to subdue an uprising on the frontier. He said to his consort, “You, lady, stay here, while I go out to put down the frontier insurrection.” But she replied, “No, my lord. I will not remain here. I will go with you.” Then he explained to her the danger that lay on the field of battle, saying, “Stay here, safe and undisturbed until my return. I will put Prince Paduma in charge. He will make sure that you are properly cared for, and then I will go.” So this he did, and then he departed.
When he had defeated his enemies and secured the country, he returned and pitched his camp outside of the city. The Bodhisatta learned of his father’s return. He decorated the city, and setting a watch over the royal palace, he prepared to go out to meet his father. The Queen observed the beauty of the Prince’s appearance, and she became enamored of him. As he prepared to leave her, the Bodhisatta said, “Can I do anything for you, mother?” “Mother, you call me?” she said. She rose up and seized his hands, saying, “Lie on my couch!” “Why?” he asked. “Just until the King comes,” she said, “let us both enjoy the bliss of love!” “Mother, you are my mother, and you have a husband. Such a thing was never before heard of, that a woman, a matron, should break the moral law in the way of fleshly lust. How can I do such a misdeed with you?” For a second time and then a third time she implored him. And when he would not give in, she said, “Then you refuse to do as I ask?” “Indeed I do refuse,” he replied. “Then I will speak to the King, and I will have you beheaded.” “Do as you will,” the Great Being answered. This left her feeling ashamed.
Then in great terror she thought, “If he gets to the King first, there is no life for me! I must speak to him first.” She left her food untouched. She put on a soiled robe and made nail-scratches on her body. She gave an order to her attendants that when the King asked where she was, they should tell him that she was ill. Then she lay down pretending to be sick.
Now the King made a solemn procession around the city clockwise. Then he went up into his dwelling. When he did not see her, he asked, “Where is the Queen?” “She is ill,” they said. He entered the state chamber and asked her, “What is wrong with you, lady?” She pretended to hear nothing. Once again and then for a third time he asked, and then she answered, “O great King, why do you ask? Be silent. A woman that has a husband must be as I am.” “Who has harmed you?” he said. “Tell me quickly, and I will have him beheaded.”
“Who did you leave behind you in this city when you went away?” she said. “Prince Paduma.” “And he,” she went on, “came into my room. I said, “My son, do not do this. I am your mother. But no matter what I said, he cried, “There is no king here but me. I will take you to my dwelling and enjoy your love. Then he seized me by the hair of my head and pulled hairs out again and again. And as I would not yield to his will, he wounded and beat me, and then he left.”
The King did not bother to investigate the matter. He was as furious as a serpent. He ordered his men, “Go. Bind Prince Paduma and bring him to me!” They swarmed through the city and went to Prince Paduma’s house. There they bound and beat him. They tied his hands behind his back. They put a garland of red flowers around his neck (a “vajjhamālā.”), making him a condemned criminal. They led him out, beating him all the while. It was clear to him that this was the Queen’s doing, and as he went along he cried out, “Ho fellows, I am not one that has caused an offence against the King! I am innocent.” All the city was aroused with the news. “They say the King is going to execute Prince Paduma at the bidding of the Queen!” They flocked together. They fell at the Prince’s feet, lamenting with a great noise, “You do not deserve this, my lord!”
Finally they brought him before the King. At the sight of him, the King could not restrain the rage in his heart. He cried out, “This fellow is no King, but he impersonates the King well! He is my son, yet he has insulted the Queen. Away with him. Throw him over the thieves’ cliff and make an end of him!” But the Prince said to his father, “No such crime lies at my door, father. Do not kill me on this woman’s word.”
But the King would not listen to him. Then all those of the royal court, 16,000 in number, raised a great lamentation, saying, “Dear Paduma, mighty Prince, you do not deserve this!” And all the warrior chiefs and all the great magnates of the land and all the attendant courtiers cried, “My lord! The Prince is a man of goodness and virtue. He observes the traditions of his race. He is heir to the kingdom! Do not kill him at one person’s word without even a hearing! A King’s duty it is to act with wisdom and prudence.” So saying, they repeated seven stanzas:
“No king should punish an offence, and hear no pleas at all,
Not thoroughly sifting it himself in all points, great and small.
“The warrior chief who punishes a fault before he tries,
Is like a man born blind, who eats his food all bones and flies.
“Who punishes the guiltless, and lets go the guilty, knows
No more than one who blind upon a rugged highway goes.
“He who all this examines well, in things both great and small,
And so administers, deserves to be the head of all.
“He that would set himself on high must not all-gentle be
Nor all-severe. But both these things practice in company.
“Contempt the all-gentle wins, and he that’s all-severe, has wrath,
So of the pair be well aware, and keep a middle path.
“Much can the angry man, O King, and much the knave can say,
And therefore for a woman’s sake your son you must not slay.”
But for all they said in so many ways, the courtiers could not win him over. The Bodhisatta also, for all his pleading, could not persuade him to listen. No. The King—blind fool—said, “Away! Throw him over the thieves’ cliff!” repeating the eighth stanza:
“One side the whole world stands, my Queen on the other all alone,
Yet her I cling to. Cast him down the cliff, and get you gone!”
At these words, not one among the 16,000 people could remain unmoved. All the populace stretched out their hands and tore their hair with grief. The King said, “Let no one prevent the throwing of this fellow over the cliff!” And amidst his followers, even though the crowd wailed, he had the Prince seized, and he had him thrown down the cliff head over heels.
There was a deity that lived in that hill. By the power of his own kindness, he comforted the Prince, saying, “Fear not, Paduma!” He caught him with both hands. He pressed him to his heart, sending a divine joy through him. He put him down in the home of the serpents of the eight ranges (the eight great Nagas: 1. Vasuki, 2. Padma 3. Karkotaka, 4. Takshaka, 5. Mahapadma, 6. Shankhapala, 7. Kulika, and 8. Shesha), within the hood of the king of the serpents (Virūpakkha, king of the west, one of the four heavenly realms). The serpent king received the Bodhisatta into the home of the serpents. He gave him half of his own glory and state. And there he lived for one year. Then he said, “I will go back to the world of men.” “Where?” they asked. “To the Himalaya, where I will live the holy life.” The serpent king gave his consent. He took him to the place where men live. He gave him the requisites of the holy life, and then he went back to his own home.
So he proceeded to the Himalaya where he embraced the holy life. He cultivated the faculty of ecstatic bliss (jhāna/samadhi). He lived there, feeding upon the fruits and roots of the woodland.
Figure: Fear not, Paduma!
Now a certain forest ranger who lived in Benares came to that place. He recognized the Great Being. “Are you not,” he asked, “the great Prince Paduma, my lord?” “Yes, Sir,” he replied. The man saluted him, and he remained there for some days. Then he returned to Benares. He went to the King and said, “Your son, my lord, has embraced the holy life in the region of Himalaya. And now he lives there in a hut of leaves. I have been staying with him, and it is from there that I have come.” “Have you seen him with your own eyes?” asked the King. “Yes, my lord,” was the reply. The King gathered together a great host and went there. He pitched his camp on the outskirts of the forest. Then, with his courtiers around him, he went to salute the Great Being who was sitting at the door of his hut of leaves. He was resplendent in his golden form. Respectfully he sat to one side. The courtiers also greeted him. They spoke pleasantly to him, and—likewise—sat on one side. The Bodhisatta for his part invited the King to share his wild fruits. He talked pleasantly with him. Then the King said, “My son, by my command you were cast down a deep cliff. How is it you are still alive?” Asking this, he repeated the ninth stanza:
“As into hell-mouth, you were cast over a craggy hill,
No support—many palm-trees deep. How are you living still?”
These are the remaining stanzas, and of the five, taken alternately, three were spoken by the Bodhisatta, and two by the King:
“A serpent mighty, full of force, born on that mountain land,
Caught me within his coils, and so here safe from death I stand.”
“Lo! I will take you back, O Prince, to my own home again,
And there—what is the wood to you?—with blessing you shall reign.”
“As who a hook has swallowed, and draws it forth all blood,
Drawn forth, is happy, so I see in me this bliss and good.”
“Why speak like this about a hook, why speak like this of gore,
Why speak about the drawing out? Come tell me, I implore.”
“Lust is the hook. Fine elephants and horse by blood I show,
These by renouncing I have drawn, this, chieftain, you must know.”
“Thus, O great King, to be king is nothing to me. I counsel you to not break the Ten Royal Virtues (generosity, morality, renunciation, honesty, gentleness, asceticism, non-violence, patience, uprightness). Forsake evildoing and rule in righteousness.” With these words the Great Being admonished the King. With much weeping and wailing, the King departed. On his way to the city he asked his courtiers, “On whose account have I mistreated a son who is so virtuous?” They replied, “The Queen’s.” And so the King had her seized and cast headlong over the thieves’ cliff. Having done this, he entered his city and thereafter he ruled in righteousness.
When the Master ended this discourse, he said, “And so, brothers, this woman maligned me in days gone by, and then, as now, she came to utter destruction.” Then he identified the birth by repeating the last stanza:
“Lady Ciñcā was my mother,
Devadatta was my father,
I was then the Prince their son.
Sāriputta was the spirit,
And the good snake, I declare it,
Was Ānanda. I have done.”
