Jataka 533
Cullahaṃsa Jātaka
The Small Swan
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 an endearing story that focuses on Ānanda. It starts with the story in the beginning which is an elongated version of the famous tale of Devadatta’s attempt to kill the Buddha by unleashing the elephant Nāḷāgiri on him. As far as I know, this is the longest and most complete version of this iconic story in the Pāli Canon.
The Jātaka itself focuses an Ānanda and his selfless devotion to the Buddha, to the extent of risking his own life to save the Buddha-to-be. This is indicative of the character of Ānanda who is one of the kindest and most admirable of the Buddha’s disciples.
“All other birds.” The Master told this story while living in the Bamboo Grove. It is about how the venerable Ānanda renounced his life.
Archers were paid to kill the Tathāgata. The first one was sent by Devadatta on this errand. But he returned and said, “Holy sir, I cannot deprive the Blessed One of life. He possesses great supernatural powers.” Devadatta replied, “Well, sir, you need not kill the ascetic Gotama. I will deprive him of life.” And as the Tathāgata was walking in the shadow cast westward by Vulture’s Peak, Devadatta climbed to the top of the mountain and hurled a mighty stone as if shot from a catapult. He thought, “With this stone I will kill the ascetic Gotama.” But two mountain peaks (hills) meeting together intercepted the stone. A splinter from it flew up and struck the Blessed One on the foot and drew blood. Severe pains set in. Jīvaka (the Saṇgha’s physician) cut open the Tathāgata’s foot with a knife, let out the bad blood and removed the proud flesh. Then he treated the wound with an ointment and healed it.
The Master moved about just as he had before. Surrounded by his attendants, he had all the great charm of a Buddha. When he saw him, Devadatta thought, “Truly no mortal, seeing the excellent beauty of Gotama’s person, dare approach him. But the king’s elephant Nāḷāgiri is a fierce and savage animal and knows nothing of the virtues of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṇgha. He will bring about the destruction of the ascetic.”
So he went and told the matter to the king (Ajatasattu, Devadatta’s ally). The king readily agreed to the suggestion. He summoned his elephant keeper and said to him; “Sir, tomorrow you are to make Nāḷāgiri mad with drink, and at the break of day let him loose in the street where the ascetic Gotama walks.” Devadatta asked the keeper how much arrack (a kind of alcohol) the elephant would drink on ordinary days. He answered, “Eight pots.” Devadatta said, “Tomorrow give him sixteen pots to drink, and send him in the direction of the street frequented by the ascetic Gotama.” “Very good,” said the keeper.
The king had a drum beaten throughout the city and proclaimed, “Tomorrow Nāḷāgiri will be maddened with strong drink and let loose in the city. The men of the city are to do all that they have to do in the early morning and after that no one is to venture out onto the street.”
Devadatta descended from the palace and went to the elephant stall. There he addressed the keepers. “We are able, I tell you, from a high position to degrade a man to a lowly one and to raise a man from a low position to a high one. If you are eager for honor, early tomorrow morning give Nāḷāgiri sixteen pots of fiery liquor. And when the ascetic Gotama comes that way, wound the elephant with spiked goads. And when in his fury he has broken down his stall, drive him in the direction of the street where Gotama is. In this way you will bring about the destruction of the ascetic.” They readily agreed to do so.
This rumor was broadcast throughout the whole city. When the lay disciples attached to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṇgha heard this, they went to the Master and said, “Holy sir, Devadatta has been conspiring with the king, and tomorrow he will have Nāḷāgiri let loose in the street where you walk. Do not go into the city tomorrow for alms and remain here. We will provide food in the monastery for the monks with the Buddha at their head.” The Master did not directly say, “I will not enter the city tomorrow for alms. Instead, he said, “Tomorrow I will work a miracle and tame Nāḷāgiri and crush the heretics. And without going on my round for alms in Rājagaha, I will leave the city, attended by a company of the Saṇgha, and go straight to the Bamboo Grove. There the people of Rājagaha will come with many bowls of foods, and tomorrow there will be a meal provided in the refectory of the monastery.” (A “refectory” is a place for common meals in a religious instruction.) In this way the Master granted their request.
On learning that the Tathāgata had acceded to their wishes, they set out from the city. They carried bowls of food and said, “We will distribute our gifts in the monastery itself.” And the Master—in the first watch—taught the Dharma. In the middle watch, he solved hard questions. In the first part of the last watch, he lay down lion-like on his right side. In the second part he spent it meditating in samadhi. And in the third part, he entered into a trance of deep compassion for the sufferings of humanity. He contemplated all his kinsfolk who were ripe for conversion. He saw that as the result of his conquest of Nāḷāgiri, 84,000 beings would be brought to a clear understanding of the Dharma.
At daybreak, after attending to his bodily necessities, he addressed Ānanda and said, “Ānanda, today bid all the monks who are in the 18 monasteries that are around Rājagaha to accompany me into that city.” The elder did so, and all the monks assembled at the Bamboo Grove. The Master, attended by a great company of monks, entered Rājagaha. Meanwhile the elephant keepers proceeded according to their instructions. There was a great gathering of people. The believers thought, “Today there will be a mighty battle between the lord elephant Buddha and this elephant of the brute world. We will witness the defeat of Nāḷāgiri by the incomparable skill of the Buddha.” They climbed up and stood on the upper stories and roofs and housetops.
But the unbelieving heretics thought, “Nāḷāgiri is a fierce, savage creature. He knows nothing of the merits of Buddhas and their like. Today he will crush the glorious form of the ascetic Gotama and bring about his death. Today we will look upon the back of our enemy.” They took their stand on upper stories and other high places.
When he saw the Blessed One approach him, the elephant terrified the people by demolishing the houses. He raised his trunk and crushed wagons into powder, and—with his ears and tail erect with excitement—he ran like some towering mountain in the direction of the Blessed One.
On seeing him the monks addressed the Blessed One. “This Nāḷāgiri, holy sir, is a fierce and savage creature and a slayer of men. He is coming along this road. Truly he knows nothing of the merit of Buddhas and their like. Let the Blessed One, the Auspicious One, withdraw.” “Fear not, brothers,” he said, “I am able to overcome Nāḷāgiri.”
Then the venerable Sāriputta prayed to the Master, saying, “Holy sir, when any service has to be rendered to a father, it is a burden laid on his eldest son. I will vanquish this creature.” Then the Master said, “Sāriputta, the power of a Buddha is one thing, that of his disciples is another,” and he rejected his offer, saying, “You are to remain here.”
This, too, was the prayer of the 80 chief elders, but he refused them all. Then the venerable Ānanda, because of his strong affection for the Master, was unable to accept this. He cried, “Let this elephant kill me first.” He stood before the Master, ready to sacrifice his life for the Tathāgata. But the Master said to him, “Go away, Ānanda, do not stand in front of me.” The elder said, “Holy sir, this elephant is fierce and savage, a slayer of men. He is like the flame at the beginning of a cycle. Let him first kill me and afterwards let him approach you.” And though he was spoken to for the third time, the elder remained in the same spot and did not retreat. Then the Blessed One, using his supernatural power, made him fall back. He placed him amid the monks.
At that moment a certain woman caught sight of Nāḷāgiri. She was terrified with the fear of death. As she fled, she dropped her child—who she had been carrying on her hip—between the Tathāgata and the elephant while she made her escape. The elephant ran after the woman. He came up on the child who uttered a loud cry. The Master manifested kindness and compassion. He spoke with the honeyed accents of a voice like that of Brahma. He called to Nāḷāgiri, “Ho! Nāḷāgiri, those that maddened you with 16 pots of arrack did not do this so that you would attack someone else. They did this thinking you would attack me. Do not use your strength by rushing about aimlessly. Come here.”
When he heard the Master, he opened his eyes and beheld the glorious form of the Blessed One. He was overwhelmed by the power of Buddha. The intoxicating effects of the strong drink disappeared. Dropping his trunk and shaking his ears, he went and fell at the feet of the Tathāgata. The Master addressed him, saying, “Nāḷāgiri, you are a brute elephant, I am the Buddha elephant. From now on, do not be fierce and savage or a slayer of men, but cultivate thoughts of charity.” So saying he stretched forth his right hand and coaxed the elephant’s forehead and taught the Dharma to him in these words:
This elephant should you presume to assail,
An awful doom you would erelong bewail.
To strike this elephant would destine thee
To state of suffering in worlds to be.
From mad and foolish recklessness abstain,
The reckless fool to heaven will ne’er attain.
If in the next world you would win heaven’s bliss,
See that you would do what is right in this.
The whole body of the elephant was filled with joy. Had he not been a mere quadruped, he would have entered on the fruition of the First Path (stream-entry). When they saw this miracle, the people shouted and snapped their fingers. In their joy they cast ornaments on him and adorned the body of the elephant. From then on Nāḷāgiri was known as “Dhanapālaka” (keeper of treasure).
Now on the occasion of this encounter with Dhanapālaka, 84,000 beings drank the nectar of immortality (became enlightened). The Master established Dhanapālaka in the five moral laws (the Precepts). The elephant used his trunk to take up dust from the feet of the Blessed One. Then he sprinkled it on his head. And retiring with bent body, he bowed to the Dasabala while he was in sight. Then he turned and entered the elephant stall. From then on, he was quite tame and harmed no man.
Now that his desire was fulfilled, the Master decided that the treasure should remain the property of those by who had thrown it upon the elephant. He thought, “Today I have wrought a great miracle. It is not seemly that I should go on my rounds for alms in this city.” After crushing the heretics, surrounded by a band of the brothers, he left the city like a victorious warrior chief and made straight for the Bamboo Grove. The citizens took with them a quantity of boiled rice, drink, and some solid food They went to the monastery on foot and provided almsgiving on a grand scale.
That evening, as they sat filling the Dharma Hall, the monks started a discussion, saying, “The venerable Ānanda achieved a marvelous thing in being ready to sacrifice his life for the sake of the Tathāgata. On seeing Nāḷāgiri, though he was forbidden by the Master three times to remain, he refused to go away. O sirs, of a truth the elder was the doer of a marvelous deed.” The Master thought, “The conversation is about the merits of Ānanda. I must be present at it.” He left his Perfumed Chamber and went and asked them, saying, “What subject are you discussing, brothers, as you sit here?” And when they answered he said, “Not now only, but formerly too, Ānanda, even when he was born in an animal form, renounced his life for my sake.” And so saying he told them this story from the past.
Once upon a time in the kingdom of Mahiṃsaka in the city of Sakuḷa, a king named Sakuḷa ruled his kingdom righteously. At that time, not far from the city, a certain fowler (a person who hunts birds) in a village of fowlers got his living by snaring birds and selling them in the city. Near that city was a lotus lake called Mānusiya. It was twelve leagues (a league is 3 miles or 4.83 kilometers) in circumference, and it was covered with five varieties of lotus. A flock of all manner of birds lived there, and a fowler set his snares there freely.
At this time the king of the Dhataraṭṭha geese (legendary golden geese), with a following of 96,000 geese, lived in Golden Cave on mount Cittakūṭa (a mountain in India). His commander-in-chief was named Sumukha. Now one day, a flock of golden geese went to Lake Mānusiya. After browsing to their heart’s content in this abundant feeding ground, they flew up to the beautiful Cittakūṭa and addressed the Dhataraṭṭha king: “Sire, there is a lotus lake called Mānusiya. It is a rich feeding ground lying amid the haunts of men. We will go there to feed.” He answered, “The haunts of men are dangerous. Do not go there.” And though he declined to go, they begged him to join them. Then he said, “If it be your good pleasure, we will go,” and with his following, he left for the lake.
Landing from the air he set his foot in a noose at the very moment he touched the ground. The noose seized his foot as if it were an iron vice. It caught and held him fast. He tried to sever the snare. He tugged at it, and first the skin was broken, next the flesh was torn, and lastly the tendon, until the snare touched the bone and the blood flowed. Severe pains set in. He thought, “If I utter a cry, my kinsfolk will be alarmed, and without feeding they will fly away famished, and through weakness they will fall into the water.” So he bore the pain, and when his kinsfolk had eaten their fill and were behaving themselves in the manner of geese, he uttered the loud cry of a captured bird.
On hearing it, the geese were frightened with the fear of death, and they flew off in the direction of Cittakūṭa. As soon as they were gone, Sumukha—the captain of the geese—thought, “Can it be that this means something terrible has happened to the Great King? I will find out what it is.” He flew at full speed, but he did not see the Great Being among those in the van of the retreating army of geese. He sought him in the main body of the birds, and there, too, he failed to find him. He said, “Without any doubt something terrible has happened.” He turned back and found the Great Being caught in a snare, stained with blood and suffering great pain, lying on the muddy ground. He landed and sat on the ground, trying to comfort the Great Being. He said, “Fear not, sire. I will release you from the snare at the sacrifice of my own life.”
Figure: The faithful Sumukha tends to the Great Being
Then to test him the Great Being spoke the first stanza:
All other birds, heedless of me, have fled in haste away,
What friendship can a captive know? Be off, make no delay.
Then followed these stanzas:
Whether I go or stay with you, I still some day must die.
I’ve courted you in pain, in woe from you I may not fly.
I either then must die with you, or live a life forlorn,
Far better ‘tis to die at once than live your loss to mourn.
It is not right to leave you, sire, in such a sorry state,
No, I am well content to share whate’er may be your fate.
What fate for one caught in a snare except the cruel spit?
How in your senses and still free could you to this submit?
What good for you or me, O bird, herein you do decry,
Or for the kin surviving us, if both of us should die?
Wrapped, golden-winged one, in night will be your deed of worth,
What moral would such sacrifice, if brought to light, show forth?
That blessings follow Right, O king of birds, do you not see?
Right duly honored shows to men what their true good may be.
Seeing the Right and all the Good that still from Right may spring,
For love of you I cheerfully my life away would fling.
If mindful of the Right one ne’er forsakes a suffering friend,
Not e’en to save one’s life, such act as Right the wise commend.
Your duty nobly done, the while I recognize your love,
Depart at once, if you would do the thing I most approve.
Perhaps in time the ties that bound my kin beneath my sway,
With fuller knowledge and control may pass to you someday.
As thus these noble birds exchanged high thoughts, to them, behold,
Like Death to some bedridden wretch appeared this fowler bold.
The friends in him discerning well the enemy they fear,
Long silent sat and motionless, as he to them drew near.
Seeing the geese rise here and there and vanish into space,
Their foe, where sat these noble birds, in haste approached the place.
And as he ran with utmost speed and reached the fated spot,
The fowler, trembling at the thought, cried, “Are they caught or not?”
The one he saw caught in the snare, the other bird he found
Watching his captive friend, himself unfettered and unbound.
Perplexed and doubting in his mind he viewed the noble pair,
—Full grown were they, two comely birds—and thus he spoke them fair.
Granted that one caught in a snare may never fly away,
Why, mighty bird, do you, still free, resolve with him to stay?
What is this fowl to you, that when the rest are fled and gone,
Though free, beside the captive bird you sit right here alone?
0 foe of birds, my friend and king, dear as my life is he,
Forsake him—no, I never will, until Death calls for me.
How was it that this bird ne’er spied the fowler’s secret snare?
Of mighty chiefs the function is of danger to beware.
When ruin comes upon a man and Death’s hour soon may be,
Though you may close upon it come, no trap or snare you see.
Snares of all kinds, O holy ones, are often set in vain,
In fatal hour at last one’s caught in hidden snare and slain.
In this way he softened the fowler’s heart, and begging for the life of the Great Being he spoke this stanza:
Is this the happy issue, say, of friendly talk with thee,
And will you, dear sir, spare our lives and let us both go free?
The fowler, charmed by Sumukha’s sweet discourse, spoke this stanza:
No prisoner of mine are you, begone, quick, go away,
I would not shed your blood, unscathed, live on for many a day.
Then Sumukha repeated four stanzas:
I should not care to live myself, if this my friend were dead,
Content with one, let him go free, and eat my flesh instead.
We two are much the same in age, in length and breadth of limb,
No loss for you, if you should take me in exchange for him.
Regard it in this light and glut your appetite on me,
First bind me in the snare, then let this king of birds go free.
Thus you would gain your wish and I my heart’s desire secure,
And peace would be with geese and you, long as life should endure.
Thus by preaching the Dharma this fowler’s heart softened like cotton dipped in oil. He yielded up the Great Being to him, as a slave to his owner. He said:
Be witness all your sages, friends, servants, and kith and kin,
Through you alone this king of birds his liberty did win.
To few ‘tis given to own a friend like you prepared to share
A common fate, as when your king was caught in deadly snare.
So I release your friend the king, to follow you afar,
Quick, go away, amidst your kin to shine fair as a star.
And so saying, the fowler—with kindness in his heart—drew near to the Great Being. He cut his bonds and took him up in his arms. And lifting him out of the water, he laid him on the bank of the lake on the fresh grass. With great tenderness he gently loosened the snare that bound his foot. Then conceiving a strong affection for the Great Being, with a heart full of love, he took some water and washed away the blood from his wound and wiped it. Through the power of his charity the wound in the Bodhisatta’s foot grew together, tendon uniting with tendon, flesh with flesh, skin with skin. Fresh skin formed and fresh down grew over it. The Bodhisatta was just as if his foot had never been trapped. He sat rejoicing in his healthy form. Then Sumukha, seeing how happy the Great Being was due to his action, in his gladness, he sang the praises of the fowler.
The Master, to make the matter clear, said:
The goose glad at the king’s release, in honor of his lord,
Thus charmed his benefactor’s ear with this most pleasant word,
“Fowler, with all your kith and kin, right happy may you be,
As I am happy to behold the king of birds set free.”
After singing the fowler’s praises, Sumukha said to the Bodhisatta, “Sire, this man has given us a great service. Had he not listened to our words, he might have won great wealth, either by making us tame birds to be kept for pleasure and offering us to some great lords or by killing and selling us for food. But disregarding his own livelihood, he hearkened to our words. Let us conduct him into the king’s presence and make him happy for life.” The Great Being agreed to this. Then Sumukha, after talking with the Great Being in their own language, addressed the fowler in human speech. He asked him, “Friend, why did you set snares?” He replied, “For gain.” “This being the case,” said Sumukha, “take us into the city with you and present us to your king, and I will persuade him to bestow great riches on you.” And he spoke these stanzas:
Come, I will teach you how you may win for yourself great gain,
Seeing the honor of this goose brooks not the slightest stain.
Quick, take us to the royal court, in body sound and whole,
Standing, unbound, at either end of this your carrying pole.
And say, “O sire, lo! here to you two ruddy geese we bring,
The one is captain of the host, the other is their king.”
This lord of men beholding then this royal goose will be
So glad and overjoyed, he will great wealth bestow on thee.
When he had spoken, the fowler replied, “Let it not be your pleasure to see the king. Truly kings are fickle. They would either keep you captive for their amusement, or they would put you to death.” Sumukha said, “Fear not, my friend. By my preaching of the Dharma, I have softened the heart of a fierce creature like you and have brought you to my feet, a fowler whose hand is red with blood. Kings, truly, are full of goodness and wisdom and can discern between good and evil words. So make haste and bring us into the presence of your king.” The fowler said, “Well, do not be angry with me. As it is your good pleasure, I will take you to him.”
So he mounted the pair of birds on his pole and went to the court. There he introduced them to the king. When he was questioned by the king, the fowler declared all the facts of the case.
The Master, to make the matter clear, said:
On hearing this he wrought the thing they craved in heart and soul,
And quickly took the geese to court, in body sound and whole,
Standing, unbound, one at each end of his long carrying pole.
“Lo! here,” he said, “two ruddy geese, O sire, to you we bring,
One is the captain of the host, the other is their king.”
How did these winged mighty ones, fowler, become your prey,
How did you creep close up to them, nor frighten them away?
O lord of men, in every pool behold a snare or net,
In every haunt of birds, I think, a deadly snare was set.
‘Twas in some hidden trap like this I caught the king of geese,
His friend, still free, sat by his side and sought his lord’s release.
This bird essayed a task beyond what vulgar souls achieve,
Resolved his every nerve to strain, his master to relieve.
There sat he, worthy to survive, content his life to give,
If but his lord, whose praise he sang, might be allowed to live.
Hearing his words I all at once attained to state of grace,
Gladly set free the captive bird and bade them leave the place.
The goose, rejoiced at his release, in honor of his lord,
Thus charmed his benefactor’s ear with this most pleasant word,
“Fowler, with all your kith and kin, right happy may you be,
As I am happy to behold the king of birds set free.
Come, I will teach you how you may win for yourself great gain,
Seeing the honor of this goose brooks not the slightest stain.
Quick, take us to the royal court, in body sound and whole,
Standing, unbound, at either end of this your carrying pole.
And say, ‘O sire, lo! here to you two ruddy geese we bring,
The one is captain of the host, the other is their king.’
This lord of men, beholding then this royal goose will be
So glad and overjoyed, he will great wealth bestow on thee.”
Thus at his bidding here was led by me the pair have come,
Although for me they both were free to seek their mountain home.
Such was the fate of this poor bird, though very righteous he,
So much that he with pity moved a fowler fierce like me.
This goose, O lord of men, to you an offering bring I here,
Amidst the haunts of fowling men one scarce could find his peer.
Thus standing there he proclaimed the virtues of Sumukha. Then King Sakuḷa offered to the goose king a costly throne and to Sumukha a precious golden chair. When they had taken their seats, he served them parched corn, honey, molasses, and the like, in golden vessels. And when they had finished their meal, he prayed to the Great Being with outstretched hands to preach the Dharma. He took his seat upon a golden chair, and at his request, the goose king held a pleasant conversation with him.
The Master, to make everything clear, said:
Seeing the king now seated on a lovely golden chair,
The goose in tones to charm the ear thus did speak to him fair.
Do you, my lord, enjoy good health and is all well with thee?
I trust your realm is flourishing and ruled in equity.
O king of geese, my health is good and all is well with me,
My realm is very flourishing and ruled in equity.
Have you true men to counsel you, free from all stain or blame,
Ready to die, if need there be, for your good cause and name?
I have true men to counsel me, free from all stain or blame,
Ready to die, if need there be, for my good cause and name.
Have you a wife of equal birth, obedient, kind in word,
With children blessed, good looks, fair name, compliant with her lord?
I have a wife of equal birth, obedient, kind in word,
With children blessed, good looks, fair name, compliant with her lord.
When the Bodhisatta had ended his words of friendly greeting, the king again said to him:
When some mischance delivered you to your most deadly foe,
Did you then at his hands, O bird, great suffering undergo?
Did he run up and with his stick belabor you, I pray?
Of such vile creatures, as I hear, this ever is the way.
I never was in danger, as I gratefully recall,
Nor did he deal with us as foes in any way at all.
The fowler, trembling and amazed, to question us was fain,
And Sumukha, wisest of birds, made answer back again.
Hearing his words he all at once attained to state of grace,
Gladly released me from the snare and bade us leave the place.
To come and visit you, O king, was Sumukha’s desire,
Thinking our friend the fowler thus great riches might acquire.
You are right welcome, sirs, be sure, I’m glad to see you here,
And let your fowler friend receive his fill of earthly gear.
And so saying the king fixed his gaze upon a certain councilor, and when he asked, “What is your pleasure, sire,” he said, “See that this fowler has his hair and beard trimmed and that after being washed and anointed he is sumptuously arrayed. Then bring him here.” And when this was done and the fowler was brought back, the king presented him with a village producing 100,000 gold coins annually, a house standing in a position abutting on two streets, a splendid chariot, and a great store of yellow gold.
The Master, to make the matter clear, said:
The king with riches manifold the fowler amply blessed,
And then in tones that charmed the ear the ruddy goose addressed.
Then the Great Being instructed the king in the Dharma. Hearing his exposition, he was glad at heart. And being minded to pay some mark of respect to the preacher of the Dharma, he presented him with the white umbrella (the symbol of royal authority) and gave his kingdom over to him. Then he spoke these stanzas:
Whate’er I lawfully possess, whate’er I duly claim,
Shall pass beneath your sway, if you your heart’s desire will name.
Whether for alms or to enjoy and use it for your own,
To you I yield my gear and all, to you resign my throne.
Then the Great Being returned the white umbrella that the king had given to him. And the king thought, “I have heard the Dharma preached by the goose king, but this Sumukha has been highly praised by the fowler as speaking words sweet as honey. I will have to hear him also preach the Dharma.” So talking with him, he spoke another stanza:
If wise and learned Sumukha would speak of his free will
A word or two, my happiness would then be greater still.
Then Sumukha said:
I could not in your presence, with propriety, my lord,
As though I were some Nāga prince, utter a single word.
For this the chief of ruddy geese, and you, O mighty king,
On many grounds may rightly claim the homages that I bring.
I, a mere underling, my lord, may scarcely intervene,
When high debate is being held your Majesties between.
The king, hearing what he said, was glad at heart. He said, “The fowler praised you, and surely there cannot be any other like you, so sweet a preacher of the Dharma,” and he repeated these stanzas:
The fowler rightly praised this bird as wise beyond its kind,
Such prudence is not found in one undisciplined in mind.
Of noble creatures I have seen, with highest nature blessed,
Surely this matchless bird among them all is far the best.
Your noble form and sweet discourse cast o’er me such a spell,
My only wish is that you both long time with me may dwell.
Then the Great Being—in praise of the king—said:
You have dealt with us as a man deals with his dearest friend,
Such was the kindness, Sir, you did to us poor birds extend.
Yet a great void the circle of our kin has to deplore,
And many a bird is sorely grieved to see our face no more.
To drive away their sorrow you, O king, have set us free,
So humbly taking leave we fly our friends once more to see.
I’m very glad acquaintance with your Highness to have made,
Henceforth, I trust, my friends may have less cause to be afraid.
When he had thus spoken, the king gave them permission to depart. And the Great Being declared to the king the misery attending the five kinds of misconduct (1. killing, 2. stealing, 3. sexual misconduct, 4. lying, and 5. intoxication) and the blessing that follows virtue. And exhorting him he said, “Keep the moral law and rule your kingdom righteously. Win the hearts of your people with the four modes of conciliation.” And he set out for Cittakūṭa.
(The four modes of conciliation are 1. generosity, 2. kind words, 3. beneficial help, and 4. consistency. The word in Pāli is saṇgahavatthu.)
The Master, to make the matter clear, said:
Thus to the lord of mortals spoke the Dhataraṭṭha king,
Then sought these geese their kith and kin with utmost speed of wing.
Seeing their chiefs all safe and sound returned from haunts of men,
The winged flock with noisy cries welcomed them back again.
Thus circling round their lord in whom they trust, these ruddy geese
Paid all due honor to their king, rejoiced at his release.
While escorting their king these geese asked him, “How, sire, did you escape?” The Great Being told them of his escape with the help of Sumukha and the action of the Sakuḷa king and the fowler. On hearing this, the flock of geese sang their praises in joy, saying, “Long live Sumukha, captain of our host, and the Sakuḷa king and the fowler. May they be happy and free from sorrow.”
The Master, to make the matter clear, repeated a final stanza:
Thus all whose hearts are full of love succeed in what they do,
E’en as these geese back to their friends once more in safety flew.
The Master here ended his story, saying, “Brothers, not only now, but in the past also, Ānanda renounced his life for my sake.” Then he identified the birth: “At that time Channa was the fowler, Sāriputta the king, Ānanda was Sumukha, the followers of Buddha were the 90,000 geese, and I was the goose king.”
(Channa was the Buddha’s charioteer in lay life. He later became a monk and an arahant.)
