Pañc Ūposatha Jātaka

Once upon a time there was a great forest that separated the kingdom of Magadha from the two kingdoms that bordered with it. The Bodhisatta was born in Magadha, as one of a great brahmin family. When he grew up, he renounced his desires and departed. He went into that forest where he made a hermitage, and there he lived.

Now not very far from this hermitage, in a clump made of bamboos, lived a wood pigeon with his mate. Near there—in an ant hill—a snake lived. A jackal had his lair in one thicket, and in another there lived a bear. These four creatures used to visit the sage from time to time and listen to his discourses.

One day the pigeon and his mate left their nest and went foraging for food. The hen went from behind, and as she traveled a hawk pounced on her and carried her off. Hearing her outcry the cock turned and looked. He saw him carrying her away! The hawk killed her in the midst of her cries, and then he devoured her.

Now the cock bird burned with the fire of love for his mate who had been torn from him. Then he thought, “This passion torments me. I will not go seeking food until I have determined how to abandon it.” So cutting short his quest, away he went to the sage. And taking a vow to abandon desire, he lay down on one side.

The snake also thought he would look for food. So he came out of his hole and looked for something to eat on a cow track near one of the frontier villages. Just then there appeared a bull who belonged to the village headman. He was a glorious creature, white all over. After feeding he got down on his knees at the foot of a certain ant hill. He tossed the earth with his horns in sport. The snake was terrified at the noise of the bull’s hooves and darted forward to hide in the ant-hill. The bull happened to step on him, whereupon the snake was angry and bit the bull. And the bull died then and there.

When the villagers found out that the bull was dead, they all ran together weeping. They honored the dead with garlands. They buried him in a grave and then returned to their homes. The snake reappeared once they had departed. He thought, “It is because of my anger that I have deprived this creature of life. I have caused sorrow to the hearts of many. Never again will I go out to get food until I have learned to abandon it.” Then he turned and went to the hermitage. He took the vow for abandoning anger, then he lay down on one side.

The jackal, likewise, went out to seek food. He found a dead elephant. He was delighted. “Plenty of food here!” he cried, and he went and took a bite of the trunk. It was as though he had bit on a tree trunk. He got no pleasure from that, so he bit near the tusk. He might as well have been biting a stone. He tried the belly. That might have been a basket. So he tried the tail. It was like an iron bowl. Then he attacked the rump, and lo! It was as soft as a cake of ghee. He liked it so well that he ate his way inside. There he remained, eating when he was hungry, and when he was thirsty, he drank the blood. And when he lay down, he spread the beast’s innards and lungs like a bed to lie on. “Here,” he thought, “I have found food and drink and my bed. What is the use of going anywhere else?” So he stayed there, well content, in the elephant’s belly. He never came out.

But by and by the corpse grew dry in the wind and the heat, and the way out by the rear was closed. The jackal was tormented inside. He lost flesh and blood, and his body turned yellow. But he could not see any way to escape.

Then one day an unexpected storm arrived. The duct was drenched and grew soft. It began to gape open. When he saw the opening, the jackal cried, “I been here in torment for too long have. Now I will escape by this hole.” Then he went into the opening headfirst. The passage was narrow. He went in fast so his body was bruised, and he left all his hair behind him. When he got out, he was as bare as a palm trunk. There was not a hair to be seen on him. “Ah,” he thought, “it is my greed that is the cause of all this trouble. Never again will I go out to feed until I have learned how to abandon my greed.” Then he went to the hermitage. He took the vow for abandoning greed, then he lay down on one side.

The bear, too, came out of the forest. And being a slave to greed, he went to a frontier village in the kingdom of Mala. “Here is a bear!” cried all the villagers. They came out armed with bows, sticks, staves, and what not, and surrounded the thicket he was. Finding himself surrounded by a crowd, he rushed out and ran away. As he ran, they assaulted him with their bows and cudgels. He came home with a broken head and covered with blood. “Ah,” he thought, “it is my excessive greed that has brought all this trouble upon me. Never again will I go out for food until I have learned how to abandon it.” So he went to the hermitage. He took the vow for abandoning greed, then he lay down on one side.

But the sage was unable to induce the deeper levels of samadhi because he was full of pride for his noble birth. A Pacceka Buddha perceived that he was possessed with pride, but he also recognized that he was no common being. “The man,” he thought, “is destined to be a Buddha, and in this very cycle he will attain to perfect wisdom. I will help him to abandon his pride, and I will cause him to develop the attainments.” (jhānas) So leaving his hut of leaves, the Pacceka Buddha traveled down from the Higher Himalaya and seated himself on the sage’s slab of stone. When the sage came out and saw him on his own seat, in his pride he was no longer master of himself. He went up and snapped fingers at him, crying out, “Curse you, vile good-for-nothing, bald-pate hypocrite, why are you sitting on my seat?” “Holy man,” said the other, “why are you consumed with pride? I have penetrated the wisdom of a Pacceka Buddha, and I tell you that during this very cycle you will awaken. You are destined to become a Buddha! When you have fulfilled the Perfect Virtues, after the lapse of another such period of time, you will be a Buddha. And when you have become a Buddha, your name will be Siddhattha (Siddhartha).” Then he told him the name and clan and family, chief disciples, and so forth, adding, “Now why are you so proud and passionate? Th is unworthy of you.” Such was the advice of the Pacceka Buddha.

The sage said nothing to these words. There was not even a salutation. There was no question as to when or where or how he should become a Buddha. Then the visitor said, “Learn the measure of your birth and my powers by this. If you can, rise up in the air as I do.” (The Pacceka Buddha is challenging the sage’s birth compared to his spiritual attainments.) So saying, he arose in the air. And shaking off the dust of his feet on top of the coil of hair that the other wore on his head, and he returned back to the Higher Himalaya. At his departure the sage was overcome with grief. “There is a holy man,"” he said, “with a heavy body like that. Yet he passes through the air like a cotton-fleck blown by the wind! Such a one, a Pacceka Buddha, and I never kissed his feet. Because of my pride of birth, I never asked him when I will become a Buddha. What good can this birth do for me? In this world the most important thing is a good life. But this pride of mine will bring me to hell. Never again will I go out to seek for wild fruits until I have learned how to abandon my pride.” Then he entered his leaf hut where he took the vow to abandon pride. Seated on his pallet of twigs, the wise young noble abandoned his pride. After that he was able to attain deep states of samadhi. He also developed the Faculties (1) faith/confidence, 2) energy, 3) mindfulness, 4) concentration/samadhi and 5) wisdom/insight) and the Attainments (jhānas), then he went forth and sat down on the stone seat that was at the end of the covered walk.

Then the pigeon and the others went up to him. They saluted him and sat down on one side. The Great Being said to the pigeon, “On other days you never come visit at this time. Instead you go seeking food. Are you keeping a sabbath fast today?” “Yes, sir, I am.” Then he said, “Why so?” reciting the first stanza:

“You are content with little, I am sure.

You want no food, O flying pigeon, now?

Hunger and thirst why willingly endure?

Why take it up, sir, the sabbath vow?”

To which the pigeon replied in two stanzas:

“Once full of greediness my mate and I

Sported like lovers both about this spot.

Her a hawk pounced on, and away did fly,

So, torn from me, she whom I loved was not!

“In various ways my cruel loss I know,

I feel a pang in everything I see,

Therefore to sabbath vows for help I go,

That passion never may come back to me.”

When the pigeon had in this way praised his own action with regard to the vows, the Great Being put the same question to the snake and all the rest one by one. They declared each one the thing as it was.

“Tree-dweller, coiling belly-crawling snake,

Armed with strong fangs and poison quick and sure,

These sabbath vows why do you wish to take?

Why thirst and hunger willingly endure?”

“The headman’s bull, all full of strength and might,

With hump all quivering, beautiful and fair,

He trod on me. In anger I did bite,

Pierced with the pain he perished then and there.

“Out pour the village people every one,

Weeping and wailing for the sight they see.

Therefore to sabbath vow for help I run,

That passion never more come back to me.”

“Carrion to you is food both rich and rare,

Corpses on charnel-ground that rotting lie.

Why does a jackal thirst and hunger bear?

Why take the sabbath vows upon him, why?”

“I found an elephant, and liked the meat

So well, within his belly I did stay.

But the hot wind and the sun’s parching heat

Dried up the passage where I pushed my way.

“All thin and yellow I became, my lord!

There was no path to go by, I must stay.

Then came a storm that vehemently poured,

Damping and softening that backside way.

“Then to get out again not slow was I,

Like the Moon issuing from Rāhu’s jaws,

Therefore to sabbath vows for help I fly

That greed may keep far from me, there’s the cause.”

(Rāhu is the god that causes eclipses.)

“It was your manner once to make a meal

Of ants upon the ant heap, Master Bear,

Why willing now hunger and thirst to feel?

Why willing now the sabbath vow to swear?”

“From greed exceeding scorned I my own home,

To Malatā I made all haste to flee.

Out from the village all the folk did come,

With bows and bludgeons they all struck at me.

“With blood besmeared and with a broken head

Back to my dwelling I made haste to flee.

Therefore to sabbath vows I now have fled

That greed may never more come near to me.”

In this way they all praised their own deed in taking these vows. Then rising up and saluting the Great Being, they asked him this question: “Sir, on other days you go out at this time to search for wild fruits. Why is it today that you do not go. Rather you observe the sabbath vows?” They recited this stanza:

“That thing, sir, that you had a mind to learn

To our best knowledge we have told it now,

But we would ask a question in our turn,

Why do you, O brahmin, take the sabbath vow?”

He explained it to them:

“’Twas a Pacceka Buddha, who but came

And stayed a moment in my hut, and showed

My comings and my goings, name and fame,

My family, and all my future road.

“Then eaten up by pride, I did not throw

Myself before his feet. I asked no more.

Therefore to sabbath vows for help I go,

That pride may not overwhelm me as before."

In this manner the Great Being explained his reason for keeping these vows. Then he exhorted them. Then he sent them away and went back into his hut. The others returned each to his own place. The Great Being—without interrupting his samadhi—became destined for the World of Brahma. And the others—abiding by his encouragement—went to swell the hosts of heaven.