Kuṇāla Jātaka

This is the report and the fame thereof.

There was a region that yielded all manner of herbs from its soil. It was overspread with many a tangle of flowers. It was ranged over by gayal (a domesticated ox), buffalo, deer, yak, spotted antelope, rhinoceros, elk, lion, tiger, panther, bear, wolf, hyena, otter, kadalī antelope, wild cat, and long-eared hare. It was inhabited by numberless herds of different kinds of elephants and frequented by various kinds of deer. It was haunted by horse-faced yakkhas, sprites, goblins and ogres. It was overspread with a thicket of trees blooming at the top with flowers, stalked, high-standing and pithless. It echoed to the cries of hundreds of birds, all mad with joy. There were ospreys, partridges, elephant-birds, peacocks, pheasants, and Indian cuckoos. It was covered with hundreds of mineral substances: collyrium, arsenic, yellow orpiment, vermilion, gold, and silver.

It was in such a delightful forest that the bird Kuṇāla lived. It was very bright, and it was covered with gay feathers. This Kuṇāla bird had 3,500 hen-birds in attendance on him. Then two birds seized a stick in their mouths. They seated the Kuṇāla bird between them and flew up. They were afraid that fatigue during the long distance would cause him to move from his position and he should fall. So 500 young birds flew below, thinking, “If this Kuṇāla bird should fall from his perch, we will catch him in our wings.”

Other 500 birds flew above him from fear that the heat would scorch Kuṇāla. 500 birds flew on either side of him to prevent cold or heat, grass or dust, wind or dew from coming near him. 500 flew in front of him so that cowherds, grass-cutters, stick-gatherers or foresters would not strike Kuṇāla with stick or potsherd, with fist or clod, with staff or knife or gravel. They protected Kuṇāla so he would not collide with a shrub or creeper or tree, with post or rock, or with some powerful bird.

500 birds flew behind him. They addressed him with gentle, kind words, in charming, sweet tones, so that Kuṇāla should not grow weary as he was sitting there. 500 birds flew here and there, bringing a variety of fruits from different kinds of trees so that Kuṇāla should not suffer from hunger. Then the birds swiftly transport Kuṇāla for his satisfaction from place to place, from garden to garden, from one river’s bank to another, from mountain peak to mountain peak, from one mango grove to another, from rose-apple orchard to rose-apple orchard, from one bread-fruit grove to another, from one cocoa-nut plantation to another. So Kuṇāla was escorted by these birds day by day. But he upbraided them: “Perish, you vile creatures, yes, perish utterly, you thievish, knavish creatures, heedless, flighty and ungrateful as you are, like the wind going wherever you want.”

After these words the Master said, “Surely, brothers, even when I was in an animal form, I knew the ingratitude, the wiles, the wickedness and immorality of sense desire. And at that time, far from being in their power, I kept them under my control.” With these words he removed the spiritual discontent of these monks. So then the Master held his peace.

At that moment two black cuckoos arrived at this spot. They raised their lord aloft on the stick, while others flew in fours below and on every side of him. On seeing them, the monks asked the Master about them. He said, “Of old, brothers, I had a friend, a royal cuckoo. His name was Puṇṇamukha, and such was the tradition in his family.” And in answer to the monk’s question, just as before, he said the following.

On the eastern side of this same Himalaya, the king of mountains, there are green-flowing streams. They have their source in slight and gentle mountain slopes in a fragrant, charming, bright spot. It is blooming with the beauty of lotuses, blue, white, and the hundred-leafed, the white lily and the tree of paradise. It is in a region overrun and beautified with all manner of trees and flowering shrubs and creepers. It resounds with the cries of swans, ducks, and geese. It is inhabited by troops of monks and ascetics. Some of them possess magical or supernatural powers. It is haunted by high angelic beings, demons, goblins, ogres, heavenly minstrels, fairies and mighty serpents. It was in such a charming forest-thicket that the royal cuckoo Puṇṇamukha lived.

His voice was very sweet, and his laughing eyes were the eyes of one intoxicated with joy. 3,500 hen-birds followed in the train of this cuckoo Puṇṇamukha. So two birds seized a stick in their mouths and seated Puṇṇamukha in the middle of it. They seated Puṇṇamukha between them and flew up. They were afraid that fatigue during the long distance would cause him to move from his position and he should fall. So 500 young birds fly below, thinking, “If this Kuṇāla bird should fall from his perch, we will catch him in our wings.”

In this way Puṇṇamukha was escorted by these birds by day. He sang their praises, saying, “Bravo, my sisters. This act of yours becomes high-born ladies in that you do service to your lord.”

Then the cuckoo Puṇṇamukha drew near to the place where the bird Kuṇāla sat. The birds who were attending Kuṇāla saw him. And while he was still far off, they drew near to Puṇṇamukha and accosted him. “Friend Puṇṇamukha, Kuṇāla here is a fierce bird and has a rough tongue. With your help we may win kind speech from him.” “Happily we may, ladies,” he said. And so saying, he drew near to Kuṇāla. After a kind greeting, he sat respectfully on one side and addressed Kuṇāla. “Why do you, friend Kuṇāla, behave so badly to these high-born ladies of rank even though they are well-conducted. One ought, friend Kuṇāla, to speak pleasantly even to ladies who are themselves ungracious in speech, much more so to those who are gracious.”

When he had so spoken, Kuṇāla abused Puṇṇamukha in this manner. He said, “Perish, vile wretch, yes, perish utterly. Who is to be found like you who is overcome by sensual desire?”

Having been reproached the cuckoo Puṇṇamukha turned back. In no time a severe sickness attacked Puṇṇamukha. He suffered from a bloody flux. It brought him near to death. Then this thought occurred to the birds in attendance upon the cuckoo Puṇṇamukha. “This cuckoo is ill. Perhaps he may be cured from his sickness.”

So leaving him alone, they went to where the bird Kuṇāla was. Kuṇāla saw these birds from afar. When he saw them, he said, “Where, wretches, is your lord?” Friend Kuṇāla, they said, “Puṇṇamukha is sick. Perhaps he may be cured from his sickness.” But Kuṇāla cursed them. “Perish, you wretches, yes, perish utterly, you thievish, knavish, heedless, flighty creatures, ungrateful for kindness done to you, going like the wind wherever you want.”

So saying, he went to where the cuckoo Puṇṇamukha was and addressed him. “Ho! friend Puṇṇamukha.” “Ho! friend Kuṇāla,” he replied. Then the bird Kuṇāla seized the cuckoo Puṇṇamukha with his wings and beak, and raising him up, he gave him all manner of medicines to drink. So the sickness of the cuckoo was cured.

When Puṇṇamukha was well, the birds returned. For a few days Kuṇāla gave Puṇṇamukha wild fruits to eat. Once he had recovered his strength, he said, “Now friend, you are well again. Continue to live with your attendant birds, and I will return to my own living place.” Then Puṇṇamukha said to him, “They left me when I was extremely ill and flew away. I have no need of these rogues.”

When he heard this, the Great Being said, “Well then, friend, I will tell you of the wickedness of sense desire.” He took Puṇṇamukha to the Red Valley on a slope of the Himalayas. He sat down on a rock of red arsenic at the foot of a sāl tree. It was seven leagues in extent. Puṇṇamukha sat with his following on one side. Throughout all the Himalayas a heavenly proclamation went out. “Today Kuṇāla, king of birds, seated on a rock of red arsenic in the Himalayas, will preach the Dharma with all the charm of a Buddha. Listen to him.” By proclaiming it, one to another, the gods of the six Kāmāvacara worlds heard of it, and they gathered. Many deities, too, in the forest, serpents, garuḍas, and vultures proclaimed the fact.

At that time Ānanda, king of the vultures, had a following of 10,000 vultures. They lived on Vulture Peak. When they heard the commotion, he thought, “I will listen to the preaching of the Dharma.” He went with his followers and sat apart. Nārada, too, the ascetic with the five Supernatural Faculties, lived in the Himalaya region with his following of 10,000 ascetics. When he heard this heavenly proclamation, he thought, “My friend Kuṇāla, they say, will speak of the faults of sense desire. I, too, must listen to his discourse.” And accompanied by a thousand ascetics he travelled there by his supernatural power and sat on one side apart. There was a great gathering to hear the teaching of Buddhas.

Then the Great Being, with the knowledge of one who remembers his former births, made Puṇṇamukha a personal witness. He related a circumstance from a former existence about the faults of sense desire. The Master, making the matter clear, said, “Then the bird Kuṇāla addressed the cuckoo Puṇṇamukha who had recently been raised up from a bed of sickness. ‘Friend Puṇṇamukha, I have seen Kaṇhā, she who had a double parentage and five husbands and whose affection was set upon a sixth man, a headless (meaning “with head crushed down into his body”), crippled dwarf.’” Here too we have a further verse:

In ancient story Kaṇhā, it is said,

A single maid to princes five was wed,

Insatiate still she lusted for yet more

And with a hump-backed dwarf she played the whore.

“I have seen, friend Puṇṇamukha, the case of a female ascetic named Saccatapāvī, who lived in a cemetery and gave away even a fourth meal. She sinned with a goldsmith. I witnessed too, friend Puṇṇamukha, the case of Kākāti, the wife of Venateyya, who lived in the midst of the sea and yet sinned with Naṭakuvera. I have seen, friend Puṇṇamukha, the fairhaired Kuraṅgavī, who though in love with Eḷakamāra sinned with Chaḷaṅgakumāra and Dhanantevāsī. This, too, was known to me, how the mother of Brahmadatta, forsaking the king of Kosala, sinned with Pañcālacaṇḍa. These and others went wrong, and one should not put trust in lust nor praise them. As the earth is impartially affected towards all the world, bearing wealth for all, a home for all sorts and conditions of men (good and bad alike), all-enduring, unshaken, immovable, so also is it with women (in a bad sense). No one should trust sensual desire like this.”

As lion fed upon raw flesh and blood,

With his five paws fierce ravening for food,

In others’ hurt will his chief pleasure find—

Such like is desire. All beware its kind.

“Truly, friend Puṇṇamukha, those who succumb to sense desire are not mere harlots, wenches or streetwalkers. They are not so much strumpets as murders. They are like robbers with braided locks, like a poisoned drink, like merchants that sing their own praises. They are crooked like a deer’s horn, evil-tongued like snakes. They are like a pit that is covered over, insatiate as hell, as hard to satisfy as an ogre. They are like the all-rapacious Yama, all-devouring like a flame, sweeping all before it as a river, like the wind going where it lists, undiscriminating like mount Neru, fruiting perennially like a poison tree.” Here too occurs a further verse:

Like poisoned draught or robber fell, crooked as horn of stag,

Like serpent evil-tongued are they, as merchant apt to brag,

Murderous as covered pit, like Hell’s insatiate maw are they,

As goblin greedy or like Death that carries all away.

Devouring like a flame are they, mighty as wind or flood,

Like Neru’s golden peak that aye confuses bad and good,

Pernicious as a poison-tree they fivefold ruin bring

On household gear, wasters of wealth and every precious thing.

Once upon a time, they say, Brahmadatta, king of Kāsi, because he had an army, seized the kingdom of Kosala. He killed its king and carried off his chief queen—who was then pregnant—to Benares. There he made her his consort. By and by she gave birth to a daughter, and as the king had neither son nor daughter of his own, he was greatly pleased. He said, “Fair lady, choose some boon at my hands.” She accepted the boon but reserved her choice.

Now they named the young princess Kaṇhā. When she had grown up, her mother said, “Dear child, your father offered me a boon. I accepted it but put off my choice. You may now choose whatever you like.” From the excess of her passion breaking through maidenly shame she said to her mother, “Nothing else is lacking to me. Get him to hold an assembly and choose a husband for me.” The mother repeated this to the king. The king said, “Let her have whatever she wishes.” He held an assembly for choosing a husband for her.

A host of men gathered in the palace yard. They were arrayed in all their splendor. Kaṇhā, in her hand stood looking out of an upper lattice window with a basket of flowers. She approved of not one of them.

Then Ajjuna, Nakula, Bhīmasena, Yudhiṭṭhila, Sahadeva, of the family of King Pāṇḍu, these five sons of King Pāṇḍu, I say, after receiving instruction in arts at Takkasilā University from a world-renowned teacher, traveled about with the idea of mastering local customs. They arrived at Benares, and hearing a commotion in the city and learning what it was about, they went and stood—all five of them in a row—in appearance like so many golden statues. When she saw them, Kaṇhā fell in love with all five of them as they stood before her. She threw a wreathed coil of flowers on the heads of all the five and said, “Dear mother, I choose these five men.”

The queen told this to the king. The king, because he had given her the choice, did not say, “You cannot do this,” but he was greatly vexed. On asking who these sons were, he learned that they were sons of King Pāṇḍu. He paid them great honor and gave them to his daughter to wife. And by the force of her passion, she won the affection of these five princes in her seven-storied palace.

Now she had as an attendant a humpbacked cripple. And when by the force of passion she had won the hearts of the five princes, as soon as they had gone forth from the palace, she found her opportunity. Fired by lust she sinned with the hump-backed slave. She said to him, “There is no one dear to me like you. I will kill these princes and have your feet smeared in the blood from their throats.”

When she was in the company of the eldest of the royal brothers, she would say, “You are dearer to me than those other four. For your sake I would even sacrifice my life. At my father’s death I will bestow the kingdom on you alone.” But when she was in the company of the others, she acted in just the same way. They were greatly pleased with her, thinking, “She is fond of us, and because of this the sovereignty will be ours.”

One day she was sick. They gathered about her. One sat rubbing her head. The rest each massaged a hand or foot, while the hump-back sat at her feet. To the eldest brother, Prince Ajjuna, who was rubbing her head, she made a sign with her head, implying, “No one is dearer to me than you are. As long as I live, I will live for you, and at my father’s death I will bestow the kingdom on you.” In this way she won his heart.

To the others, too, she made signs with hand or foot to the same effect. But to the hump-back she made a sign with her tongue which said, “Only you are dear to me. I will live for your sake.” All of them, because of what she had said before, knew what was meant by her signs. But while the rest of them each recognized the sign given to him, Prince Ajjuna saw the motions of hand, foot, or tongue. He thought, “As in my case, so also with the others, by this sign some token must be given. There must be some intimacy with this hump-backed fellow.” So he went outside with his brothers and asked, “Did you see the lady with five husbands making a sign with her head to me?” “Yes, we did.” “Do you know the meaning of it?” “We do not.” “Do you know what was meant by the sign given to you with hand or foot?” “Yes, we know.” “In the same way she gave me, too, a sign. Do you know the meaning of the sign given to the humpback by a motion of her tongue?” “We do not know.” Then he told them. “With him, too, she has sinned.”

And when they did not believe him, he sent for the hump-back and asked him. He told him all about it. When they heard what he had to say, they all lost their passionate love for her. “Ah! Surely,” they said, “Sensual passion is evil and vicious. Leaving men like us, nobly born and blessed by fortune, she performs misdeeds with a disgusting, loathsome, hump-backed fellow like this. Who that is wise will find any pleasure in consorting with someone so shameless and wicked as this?”

Thus censuring her in many a turn the five princes thought, “We have had enough of married life.” They retired into the Himalayas, and after going through the Kasiṇa rite, at the end of their life they fared according to their deeds (karma). Kuṇāla the bird-king was Prince Ajjuna, and it was for this reason that in setting forth anything that he had seen, he began his story with the words “I saw.” In relating other things that he had seen of old he used the same words, and here follows an explanation of an incident given in the first introductory story.

Once upon a time, they say, a white nun (among the Jains there is an order of white-robed ascetics called śvetāmbaras) named Saccatapāvī had a hut of leaves built in a cemetery near Benares. Living there she abstained from four out of five meals, and throughout the city her fame was blazed abroad as if it were that of the Moon or Sun. Natives of Benares, if they sneezed or stumbled, said, “Praise be to Saccatapāvī.”

Now on the first day of a festival some goldsmiths had a tent erected in a certain spot where a crowd was gathered. They brought fish, meat, strong drink, perfumes, wreaths and the like, and they started a drinking bout. Then a certain goldsmith, who was addicted to alcohol, vomited. He said, “Praise be to Saccatapāvī.” But a certain wise man among them said, “Alas! Blind fool, you are paying honor to a wicked woman. Oh! You are a fool.” He replied, “Friend, do not speak in this way or be guilty of a deed that leads to hell.” Then the wise man said, “You fool, hold your tongue. Lay a wager with me for a thousand gold coins, and on the seventh day from this, seated in this very spot, I will deliver into your hands Saccatapāvī in splendid apparel and made merry with strong drink. I, too, will have a strong drink with her.” He said, “You will not be able to do so,” and he took his wager for a thousand gold coins.

So he told the other goldsmiths, and early on the next morning, disguised as an ascetic, our wise man made his way into the cemetery. Not far from her place of living he stood worshipping the Sun. She saw him as she was setting out to collect alms and thought, “Surely this must be an ascetic with miraculous powers. I live on one side of the cemetery, but he is in the center of it. His heart must be serene. I will pay my respects to him.” So she drew near to him and saluted him, but he neither looked nor spoke. On the next day he acted in the same way. But on the third day when she saluted him, he looked down and said, “Depart.” On the fourth day he spoke kindly to her and said, “Are you not tired of begging for alms?” She thought, “I have had a kind greeting,” and she departed well pleased.

On the fifth day she received a still kinder greeting, and after sitting awhile she saluted him and went her way. But on the sixth day she went and saluted him as he sat there. He said, “Sister, what in the world is this great noise of song and music in Benares today?” She answered, “Holy sir, do you not know that a festival has been proclaimed in the city? This is the sound of those that make merry there.” Pretending not to know he said, “Yes, this doubtless is the noise I hear.” Then he asked, “How many meals, Sister, do you omit taking?” “Four, sir,” she said, “and how many do you omit?” “Seven, sister.” But he spoke falsely, for he used to eat all day and night. Then he asked, “How many years is it since you took holy vows?” And when she said, “Twelve, and how many since you took orders?” he answered, “This is the sixth year.” Then he asked, “Sister, have you attained to a holy calm?” “I have not, sir. Have you?” “Neither have I,” he said. “We get, sister, neither the joy of sensual pleasure nor the bliss of renunciation. What is it to us that hell is hot? Let us follow in the way of the multitude. I will become a householder, and as I own the treasure that belonged to my mother, I will come to no harm.”

When she heard what he said, because of her desire for security, she developed a passion for him. She said, “I too, sir, feel spiritual discontent. If you do not reject me, I, too, will keep house with you.” So he said to her, “I will not reject you. You will be my wife.” Then he took her into the city and lived with her.

Later he went to the drinking booth with her. He took strong drink and handed her over to his friends the worse for liquor. So that other fellow lost his wager of a thousand gold coins, and she was blessed with numerous sons and daughters by the goldsmith. At that time Kuṇāla was the goldsmith and in telling the story he began with the words “I saw.”

The second tale is a story of the past that is told at length in the Fourth Book in the Kākāti Birth Story (Jātaka 327).

Now at this time Kuṇāla was the Garuḍa (Garuḍas are bird deities. See Jātaka 327), and this is the reason why in illustrating what he had seen with his own eyes he began with the words “I saw.”

In the third story, once upon a time Brahmadatta slew the king of Kosala and seized his kingdom. Carrying off his chief queen, who was big with child, he returned to Benares. And even though he knew her condition, he made her his queen consort. When her time had come, she gave birth to a son like an image of gold.

The queen thought, “When he has grown up, the king of Benares will say, “He is a son of my enemy. What is he to me?” and the king will put him to death. No, do not let my boy perish by an enemy’s hand.” So she said to his nurse, “Cover this child, my dear, with a coarse cloth and go and lay him in the charnel ground.” The nurse did so, and after bathing, she returned home. The king of Kosala, too, after death was born in the form of a guardian angel of the boy. By his divine power a she-goat belonging to a goatherd—who was keeping his flock in this spot—saw the child. She developed an affection for him. And after giving him milk, she wandered off for a bit. She came back twice, three, or even four times, and gave him milk.

The goatherd saw what the goat was doing. He went to the spot, and when he saw the child, he developed an affection for it. So he brought it to his wife. She was childless and had no milk to give him. So the she-goat continued to give it milk.

From that day on two or three goats died every day. The goatherd thought, “If this boy goes on being tended by us, all our goats will die. What is he to us?” Then he laid him in an earthenware vessel, covered him up with another, and smeared his face all over. Then, without leaving any chink using the flour of beans, he dropped him into the river.

The child was carried down the stream and was found on the lower bank near the king’s palace by a low-caste member of old rubbish. He was there with his wife washing his face. He ran up in haste, pulled the vessel out of the water, and laid it on the bank. “What have we here?” he thought. Uncovering the vessel, he found the child. His wife, too, was childless, and she also developed an affection for him. So she took him home and watched over him.

When he was seven or eight years old, his father and mother would take him with them when they went to the palace. When he was 16 years old, the lad often went to the palace to mend old things. The king and queen consort had a daughter named Kuraṅgavī, a girl of extraordinary beauty. From the moment she set eyes upon him she fell in love with the youth. And not caring for anyone else, she constantly went to the place where he worked. From repeatedly seeing one another, they were mutually enamored. Secretly within the royal precincts guilty relations were established.

In course of time the servants told the king. In his rage be called his councilors together. He said, “Wicked acts have been committed by this low-caste fellow. Decide what must be done with him.” His councilors answered, “His offense is great. We will torture him, and then we will put him to death.”

At this moment the lad’s father—the king of Kosala—who had become his guardian angel, took possession of the body of the youth’s mother. Under the influence of the divine being, she drew near to the king and said, “Sire, this youth is no low-caste fellow. He is the son born to me by the king of Kosala. In saying that my boy was dead, I lied to you. Knowing him to be the child of your enemy, I gave him to a nurse and had him exposed in a charnel ground. Then a goatherd watched over him. But when his goats all began to die, he had him cast into the river. He was transported here by the stream and was found by the low-caste man who repairs old rubbish in our palace. He was fostered by him, and if you do not believe me, call for all these people and ask them.”

The king summoned all of them, beginning with the nurse. He learned that the facts were just as she stated. He was delighted to find that the youth was nobly born. The king gave directions that he should take a bath and put on splendid apparel, then he gave him his daughter in marriage.

Now because he had brought about the death of the goats, they named him Eḷakamāra (Goat’s Bane). Then the king assigned him a transport and an army and sent him off, saying, “Go and take possession of the kingdom that was your father’s.” So he set off with Kuraṅgavī and was established on the throne.

Then the king of Benares thought, “He is quite uneducated.” So he sent Chaḷaṅgakumāra to be his teacher and to instruct him in arts. Accepting him as his teacher, he conferred on him the post of commander-in-chief. But by and by Kuraṅgavī misconducted herself with him. The commander-in-chief also had an attendant named Dhanantevāsī. He sent robes and other adornments to Kuraṅgavī, and she went wrong with him, too. So vicious and immoral are acts of passion, and therefore I praise them not. This the Great Being taught in telling a story of the past, for at that time he was Chaḷaṅgakumāra, and therefore the incident he related was one he saw with his own eyes.

In the fifth story, once upon a time, a king of Kosala seized the kingdom of Benares. He made the king’s chief queen his royal consort. At that time she was pregnant. Then he returned to his own city. By and by she gave birth to a son. The king had no children of his own. He fondly cherished the boy and had him instructed in all learning. When he was of age, he sent him away, bidding him to take possession of the kingdom that had belonged to his father. He went and reigned there.

Then his mother said she longed to see her boy. She took leave of the king of Kosala, and setting out for Benares with a large escort, she took up her residence in a town lying between the two kingdoms. In this place a certain handsome brahmin youth named Pañcālacaṇḍa lived. He brought her a present. When she saw him, she fell in love and misconducted herself with him. After spending a few days there, she went to Benares and saw her son. When she returned, she took up residence in the same town. And after spending several days in guilty intercourse with her lover, she departed to Kosala city.

Very soon after this she gave this or that reason for visiting her son. Once again she took leave of the king. She went and stayed a fortnight in the same town, misconducting herself with her lover. So wicked and false, Sampuṇṇamukha, is sensual passion. And in telling this story of the past he began with the words, “To the same effect, also, is this tale.”

Hereafter, in a variety of ways exhibiting the charm with which he preached the Dharma, he said, “Friend Puṇṇamukha, there are four things which, if certain circumstances arise, prove injurious. These, I say, are not to be lodged in a neighbor’s household: an ox, a cow, a chariot, a spouse. From these four things a wise person would keep his house clear:”

Ox, cow, nor car to neighbors lend,

Nor trust a spouse to house of friend.

The car they break through want of skill,

The ox by over-driving kill.

The cow is over-milked ere long,

The spouse in neighbor’s house goes wrong.

There are six things, friend Puṇṇamukha, which under certain circumstances prove injurious. A bow lacking its string, a spouse living in a neighbor’s family, a ship, a car with broken axle, an absent friend, a wicked comrade, all, under certain circumstances, prove injurious. Truly on eight grounds, friend Puṇṇamukha, a woman despises her husband: for poverty, for sickness, for old age, for drunkenness, for stupidity, for carelessness, for attending to every kind of business, for neglecting every duty towards her. Truly, on these eight grounds a woman despises her lord. Here moreover occurs this verse:

If poor or sick or old, a sot, or reckless thought,

If dull or by his cares of business overwrought,

Or disobliging found—such lord a wife esteems as nought.

Verily on nine grounds a woman incurs blame: if she is fond of frequenting parks, gardens, and riverbanks, fond of visiting the houses of kinsfolk or of strangers, given to wearing the adornment of cloth worn by gentlemen, if she is a drinker of strong drink, given to staring about her, or of standing before her door. On these nine grounds, I say, a woman incurs blame. Here moreover occurs the following verse:

A woman dressed in smart cloth vest, dram-drinking, apt to roam

In pleasance, park, by river side, to friend’s or stranger’s home,

Standing before her door, to stare about with idle gaze,

In nine such ways corrupted soon from path of virtue strays.

Truly, friend Puṇṇamukha, in forty different ways a woman flirt with a man. She draws herself up. She bends down. She frisks about. She looks coy. She presses together her fingertips. She plants one foot on the other. She scratches the ground with a stick. She dances her boy up and down. She plays and makes the boy play. She kisses and makes him kiss her. She eats and gives him to eat. She either gives or begs something. Whatever is done she mimics. She speaks in a high or low tone. She speaks now indistinctly, now distinctly. She appeals to him with dance, song and music, with tears or coquetry, or with her finery. She laughs or stares. She shakes her dress or shifts her loincloth, exposes or covers up her leg, exposes her bosom, her armpit, her navel. She closes her eye. She elevates her eyebrow. She pinches her lip, makes her tongue loll out, loosens or tightens her cloth dress, loosens or tightens her headgear. Truly in these forty ways she flirts with a man.

Truly, friend Puṇṇamukha, a seductive woman is to be known in 25 different ways. She praises her lord’s absence from home. She does not rejoice in his return. She criticizes him. She is silent in his praise. She tries to harm him and does not act on his behalf. She does whatever is harmful to him and refrains from what is beneficial. She goes to bed with her clothes on and lies with her face averted from him. She tosses about from side to side. She causes a great fuss. She heaves a long-drawn sigh. She feels a pain. She frequently must solicit nature. She acts perversely. On hearing a stranger’s voice, she opens her ear and listens attentively. She wastes her lord’s wealth. She is intimate with her neighbors. She cavorts abroad in search of pleasure and entertainment. She walks the streets. She is guilty of adultery. Disregarding her husband, she has wicked thoughts in her heart. Truly in these 25 ways, friend Puṇṇamukha, is a seductive woman to be known. Here moreover occurs this utterance:

Her husband’s absence she approves nor grieves should he depart,

Nor at the sight of his return rejoices in her heart,

She ne’er at any time will say aught in her husband’s praise,

Such are the signs that surely mark the wicked woman’s ways.

Undisciplined, against her lord some mischief she will plot,

His interest neglects and does the thing that she ought not,

With face averted lies she down beside him, fully dressed,

By such like signs her wickedness is surely thus confessed.

Restless she turns from side to side nor lies one moment still,

Or heaves a long-drawn sigh and groans, pretending she is ill,

As if at nature’s call from bed she oftentimes will rise,

By such like signs her wickedness a man may recognize.

Perverse in all her acts she does the thing she should eschew,

And hearkens to the stranger’s voice, her favors should he sue,

Her husband’s wealth is freely spent some other love to gain,

By signs like these her wickedness to all is rendered plain.

The wealth that by her lord with toil was carefully amassed,

The gear so painfully heaped up, behold, she squanders fast,

With neighbors far too intimate the lady soon will grow,

And by such signs the wickedness of women one may know.

Stepping abroad behold her how she walks about the streets,

And with the grossest disrespect her lord and master treats.

Nor of adultery stops short, corrupt in heart and mind—

By such like signs how wicked are such womenfolk we find.

Often she will at her own door all decency defy,

And shamelessly expose herself to any passing by,

The while with troubled heart she looks around on every side—

By such like signs the wickedness of such folk is decried.

As groves are made of wood, as streams in curves and windings flow,

So, give them opportunity, wicked folk wrong will go.

Yea give them opportunity and secrecy withal,

Overcome with passion all will from paths of virtue fall.

Thus will all desire wantons prove, should time and place avail,

And e’en with humpback dwarf will err, should other lovers fail.

Those that live for great sense delight let everyone distrust,

Fickle in heart they ever are and unrestrained in lust.

People of pleasure fitly called, the basest of the base,

To all then such as common are as any bathing place.

Moreover, he said, once upon a time at Benares there was a king named Kaṇḍari. He was a very handsome man. Every day his counsellors would bring a thousand boxes of perfume, and with this perfume they would make the house trim and neat. Then splitting up the boxes, they would make scented firewood and cook the food with it.

Now his wife was a lovely woman named Kinnarā. His chaplain Pañcālacaṇḍa was the same age as himself and full of wisdom. A rose-apple tree grew in the wall near the king’s palace. Its branches hung down on the wall. A loathsome, misshapen cripple lived in the shade of it. Now one day Queen Kiṇṇarā looked out of her window. She saw him and conceived a passion for him.

At night she won the king’s favor by her charms. As soon as he had fallen asleep, she would get up softly. And putting all manner of dainty food into a golden vessel and taking it on her hips, she would let herself down through the window by means of a rope of cloth. Then she would climb up the rose-apple tree, drop down by a branch of it, and give her dainty food to the cripple. Then she would take her pleasure with him. Afterwards, she would ascend to the palace the same way that she had come down. And after shampooing herself all over with perfumes, she would lie down by the king’s side. In this way she would constantly misconduct herself with this cripple, and the king knew nothing of it.

One day after a solemn procession around the city, the king was entering his palace when he saw this cripple. He was a pitiable object, lying in the shade of the rose-apple. He said to his chaplain, “Just look at this ghost of a man.” “Yes, sire?” “Is it possible, my friend, that any woman moved by lust would come near such a loathsome creature?” Hearing what he said the cripple, swelling with pride, thought, “What is it this king said? He knows nothing of his queen’s coming to visit me.” He stretched out his folded hands towards the rose-apple tree and cried, “O my lord, the guardian spirit of this tree, except for you no one knows about this.”

The chaplain noticed his action. He thought, “Of a truth, with the help of this tree the king’s chief consort comes and misconducts herself with him.” So he said to the king, “Sire, at night what is it like when you come into contact with the queen?” “I notice nothing else,” he said, “but at the middle watch her body is cold.” “Well, sire, whatever may be the case with other women, your Queen Kinnarā misconducts herself with him.” “What is this you say, my friend? Would such a charming lady take her pleasure with this disgusting creature?” “Well then, sire, put it to the proof.” “Agreed,” said the king, and after supper he lay down with her to put it to the test.

At the usual time for falling asleep, he pretended to drop off, and she acted as before. The king following in her steps and took his stand in the shade of the rose-apple tree. The cripple was enraged with the queen and said, “You are very late in coming.” Then he struck the chain in her ear with his hand. She said, “Be not angry, my lord. I was waiting for the king to fall asleep.” And so saying she acted as if she were a wife in his house.

But when he struck her, the ear-ornament, which was like a lion’s head, fell from her ear and dropped at the king’s feet. The king thought, “Just this will be the best thing for me,” and he took it away with him. And after misconducting herself with her lover, she returned just as before and proceeded to lie down by the side of the king. The king rejected her advances.

On the next day he gave an order. It said, “Let Queen Kinnarā come, wearing every ornament I have given her.” She said, “My lion’s head jewel is with the goldsmith,” and she refused to come. When a second message was sent, she came with only a single ear-ornament. The king asked, “Where is your earring?” “With the goldsmith.” He sent for the goldsmith and said, “Why do you not let the lady have her earring?” “I do not have it, sire.” The king was enraged and said, “You wicked, vile woman.” And so saying he threw the earring down before her. He said to the chaplain, “Friend, you spoke the truth. Go and have her head chopped off.”

He secured her in a certain quarter of the palace and then went to the king. He said, “Sire, be not angry with the queen Kinnarā. She has succumbed to sensual passion. All such people are the same. If you are anxious to see how immoral such people are, I will show you their wickedness and deceitfulness. Come, let us disguise ourselves and go into the country.” The king readily agreed. He handed over his kingdom to his mother, then he set out on his travels with his chaplain.

(Isn’t it interesting that when he went out in search of proof of a woman’s infidelity that he left the kingdom under the control of his mother!)

When they had gone a league’s journey and were seated by the high road, they saw a certain gentleman of property. He was holding a marriage festival for his son. He had seated the bride in a close carriage and was accompanying her with a large escort. When he saw this the chaplain said, “If you like, you can make this girl misconduct herself with you.” “What do you say, my friend? With this great escort that is impossible.” “Well then see this, my lord?”

He went forward and set up a tent-shaped screen not far from the high road. He placed the king inside the screen and sat down by the side of the road, weeping. When the gentleman saw it he asked, “Why, friend, are you weeping?” “My wife,” he said, “was heavy with child. I set out on a journey to take her to her own home, and while still on the way her pangs overtook her. She is in trouble behind the screen. She has no woman with her, and I cannot go to her there. I do not know what will happen.” “She ought to have a woman with her. Do not weep. There are many women here. One of them will go to her.” “Well then, let this maiden come. It will be a happy omen for the girl.”

The gentleman thought, “What he says is true. It will be an auspicious thing for my daughter-in-law. She will be blessed with numerous sons and daughters.” So he brought her there. She passed inside the screen, fell in love at first sight of the king, and misconducted herself with him. Then the king gave her his signet ring. So when the deed was done and she came out of the tent they asked her, “What has she given birth to?” “A boy the color of gold?” Then the gentleman took her and went off.

The chaplain went to the king and said, “You have seen, sire, even a young girl can be obsessed with sensual passion. How much more will others be so? Pray, sir, did you give her anything?” “Yes, I gave her my signet ring.” “I will not allow her to keep it.”

He followed in haste and caught up to the carriage. When they asked, “What is the meaning of this?” he said, “This girl has gone off with a ring my brahmin wife had laid on her pillow. Give up the ring, lady.” When she gave it to him, she scratched the brahmin’s hand, saying, “Take it, you rogue.” In this way the brahmin in a variety of ways showed the king that many others are guilty of misconduct. He said, “Let this suffice here. We will now go elsewhere, Sire.”

The king traveled all over India, and they said, “All of those who are possessed by sensual passion will be the same. What are they to us? Let us turn back.” So they went straight home to Benares. The chaplain said, “It is thus, sire, with all who are obsessed with sensual desire, so wicked is their nature. Forgive Queen Kinnarā.” At the prayer of his chaplain, he pardoned her. But he had her cast out of the palace. And when he had ejected her from the place, he chose another queen consort. Then he had the cripple driven out and ordered the rose-apple branch to be lopped off.

At that time Kuṇāla was Pañcālacaṇḍa. So in telling the story of what he had seen with his own eyes, in illustration he spoke this stanza:

This much from tale of Kaṇḍari and Kinnarā is shown,

The passionate fail to find thrill in homes that are their own.

Thus does a spouse forsake a mate, although worthy and strong,

And will with any other, even cripple vile, go wrong.

Another story is this.

Once upon a time a king of Benares, Baka by name, ruled his kingdom righteously. At that time a certain poor man, who lived by the eastern gate of Benares, had a daughter named Pañcapāpā. It is said that in a former birth as a poor man’s daughter she was kneading clay and plastering a wall. Then a paccekabuddha thought, “Where am I to get clay to make this mountain cave neat and trim? I can get it in Benares.” So putting on his cloak, with bowl in hand, he went into the city. He took his stand not far from this woman. She was angry, and, looking at him, she thought, “In his wicked heart he is begging for clay as well as alms.” The paccekabuddha stood without moving.

When she saw that he remained motionless, she was converted. And, looking at him once more, she said, “Priest, you have got no clay.” She took a big lump and put it in his bowl, and with this clay he made things neat in his cave. As a reward for this lump of clay, she became soft to the touch. But because of her anger, her hands, feet, mouth, eyes and nose became hideously ugly. And so men knew her by the name of Pañcapāpā (The Five Defects).

Now the king of Benares once was wandering about the city by night and came to this spot. She was playing with the village girls, and not recognizing the king, she seized him by the hand. As the result of her touch, he lost all control over himself. It was as if he were thrilled by a heavenly touch. Inflamed by passion he caught her by the hand even though she was so hideous to look at. He asked whose daughter she was. She answered, “Daughter of a dweller by the gate.” She told him that she was unmarried. He said, “I will be your husband. Go and ask your parents’ consent.” She went to her father and mother and said, “A certain man wishes to marry me.” They assented and said, “He must be a poor, sorry creature, if he desires someone like you.” Then she went and told him that her parents consented.

So he cohabited with her in that very house. Quite early in the morning he sought his palace. From that day on the king repeatedly went there in disguise, and he did not want to look at any other woman. Now one day her father was attacked with a bloody flux. The remedy for his sickness was a constant supply of rice gruel prepared with milk, ghee, honey, and sugar, and because of their poverty, they could not obtain them. The mother said to the daughter, “My dear, would your husband be able to procure some rice gruel for us?” “Dear mother,” she said, “my husband must be even poorer than we are. But even if this is so, I will ask him. Do not worry.”

At about the time when he should return, she sat down as if in a disconsolate state. When the king came, he asked why she was so sad. When he heard what was the matter, he said, “My dear, how will I get this powerful remedy?” He thought, “I cannot keep coming here in this way. One must consider the risk one runs in the journey to and from. But if I were to take her to the court, being ignorant of her possession of a soft touch, they will make mock me and say, “Our king has returned with a female goblin.” But if I acquaint the city with her touch, I will do away with all criticism against myself.”

So he said to her, “My dear, do not trouble yourself. I will bring your father some rice gruel.” And so saying, after taking his pleasure with her, he returned to the palace. On the next day he had some rice gruel boiled for her. He took some leaves and made two baskets with them. In one he put the rice gruel, and in the other he placed a jeweled crown. That night he went and said, “My dear, we are poor. I got this with great difficulty. You are to say to your father, ‘Today eat the rice gruel from this basket and tomorrow from that.’” She did so accordingly.

So her father, after eating very little of it, was soon satisfied by its invigorating qualities. She gave the rest to her mother, and she also took some of it. All three of them felt very happy. They reserved the basket containing the jeweled crown for the next day.

When the king reached his palace, he washed his face and said, “Bring me my crown.” When they said, “We cannot find it,” he said, “Search through the whole city.” They searched but still did not find it. “Well then,” he said, “search in the houses of the poor outside the city, beginning with the baskets of leaves for food.” They searched and found the jeweled crown in this house. They cried out, “This woman’s father and mother are thieves!” They bound them and brought them to the king. Then her father said, “My lord, we are no thieves. A certain man brought us this jewel.” “Who was it?” he said. “My son-in-law,” he answered. When asked where he was, he said, “My daughter knows.” Then he had a word with her. “My dear,” he said, “you know who your husband is.” “I do not know.” “If this is so, we are undone.” “Dear father, he comes when it is dark and leaves before it is light, so I do not know his appearance, but I can recognize him by the touch of his hand.”

Her father told this to the king’s officers, and they told the king. The king pretended ignorance of the matter. He said, “Well, place the woman in a tent screen in the palace yard and cut a hole in the curtain as big as a man’s hand. Call the citizens together and determine the thief by the touch of his hand.” The officers did as he instructed them.

When they saw what she was like they were filled with loathing. They said, “She is a goblin!” and in their disgust they did not dare to touch her. But they took her and placed her behind a screen in the palace yard and gathered all the citizens. She seized hold of the hand of every one that came, as it was stretched out through the hole, she said, “This is not the man.” The people were so captivated by her heavenly touch they could not tear themselves away. They thought, “If she is worthy of punishment, even if we have to inflict blows on her with a stick, we will be ready to undergo any servile tasks for her and to take her home as our wedded wife.”

Then the king’s men beat them and drove them away, and all of them, beginning with the viceroy, behaved like madmen. Then the king said, “Could I possibly be the man?” He stretched out his hand. The woman seized his hand and cried aloud, “I have got the thief.” The king asked his men, “When your hand was seized by her, what did you think of it?” They told him exactly how they felt. So the king said, “This is why I made them bring her to my house. Had they known nothing of her touch, they would have despised me. And now that all of you have learned the facts from me, say in whose house ought she to live as wife?” They said, “In your house, sire.” So, with the ceremonious sprinkling, he recognized her as his chief consort and bestowed great power on her father and mother.

Afterwards in his infatuation he never looked at any other woman. The other queens sought to discover the mystery surrounding her. One day she saw in a dream that she was to become the chief queen of two kings. She told her dream to the king. The king summoned the interpreters of dreams and asked, “What is the meaning of this dream of hers?”

Now they had received a bribe from the other women. They said, “The fact of the queen’s sitting on the back of a perfectly white elephant is a token of your death, and that she touches the moon as she rides upon the elephant’s back is a sign of her bringing some hostile king against you.” “What then is to be done?” he said. “You cannot put her to death, sire, but you must place her on board a ship and let her drift down the stream.”

That night the king put her on board with food, garments, and adornments, and he sent her adrift on the river. As she was carried down in the vessel by the stream, she came face to face with King Pāvāriya. He was entertaining himself in the river. His commander-in-chief saw it and said, “This ship belongs to me.” The king said, “Its cargo is mine.” And when the ship reached them and they saw the woman he said. “Who are you, so like a goblin as you are?” She smiled and said she was the chief consort of King Baka. She told him her story and that she was renowned throughout India as Pañcapāpā. Then the king took her by the hand, lifted her out of the vessel, and no sooner had he taken her hand than he was inflamed with passion at her touch. As for his other wives, he ceased to regard them as worthy of the name of women. He raised her to the position of chief queen, and she was as dear as his own life to him.

When King Baka heard what had happened, he said, “I will not allow him to make her his queen consort.” He gathered an army, then he took up his quarters in a port on the opposite side of the river. He sent a message that Pāvāriya was either to surrender his wife or give battle.

His rival was ready for battle, but the councilors of the two kings said, “For the sake of passion there is no need to die. From his being her first husband she belongs to Baka, but from his having rescued her from the ship she belongs to Pāvāriya. Therefore, let her spend seven days at a time in the house of each of them.”

After due deliberation they persuaded the two kings to this view. They both were highly pleased. They built cities on opposite banks of the river and took up their residence there. The woman accepted the position of chief consort to the pair of kings, and they were both infatuated with her.

Now she lived seven days in the house of one of them, and then she crossed over in a ship to the home of the other. And when in mid-stream she misconducted herself with the pilot who steered the vessel. He was a lame and bald old man. At that time Kuṇāla, the king of birds, was Baka, and so he spoke of this as something he had seen with his own eyes. And to illustrate it, he repeated this stanza:

Wife of Pāvārika and Baka too,

(Two kings whose lust no pause or limit knew)

Yet sins with her devoted husband’s slave,

With such sense desire who would not misbehave?

Yet another story.

Once upon a time the wife of Brahmadatta, Piṅgiyānī by name, opened her window. She looked out and saw a royal groom. When the king had fallen asleep, she went got down through the window and misconducted herself with him. Then she climbed back to the palace and shampooed herself with perfumes, then she lay down with the king.

Now one day the king thought, “I wonder why the queen is always cool at midnight. I will look into the matter.” So one day he pretended to be asleep, then he got up and followed her. He saw her committing folly with the groom. He returned and climbed up to his chamber, and she, too, after having been guilty of adultery, went and lay down on a trundle bed. On the next day the king, in the presence of his ministers, summoned her and made known her misconduct. He said, “The queen has misbehaved.” He forgave her offence, even though it deserved death, imprisonment, mutilation, or cleaving asunder. But he stripped her of her high rank and made someone else his queen consort. At that time King Kuṇāla was Brahmadatta, and so it was that he told this story as of something he had seen with his own eyes. And by way of illustration, he repeated this stanza:

Fair Piṅgiyānī was as wife adored

By Brahmadatta, earth’s all conquering lord,

Yet sinned with her devoted husband’s slave,

And lost by lechery both king and knave.

After telling of the treachery of sensual desire in old-world stories, in yet another way, still speaking of their misdeeds, he said:

How fickle the passionate are, ungrateful, treacherous they,

No one if not possessed would deign to credit aught they say.

Little reck they of duty’s call or plea of gratitude,

Insensible to parents’ love and ties of brotherhood,

Transgressing every law of right, they play a shameless part,

In all their acts obedient to the wish of their own heart.

However long they dwell with one, though kind and loving he,

Tender of heart and dear to them as life itself may be,

In times of trouble and distress, leave them they will and must,

I for my part in sensual lust can never put my trust.

How often is a lustful mind like shifty monkey’s found,

Or like the shade cast by a tree on height or depth around,

How changeful, too, the purpose lodged within a passioned breast,

Like tire of wheel revolving swift without a pause or rest.

Whene’er with due reflection they look round and see their way

To captivate someone of wealth and make of them their prey,

Such simpletons with words so soft and smooth they captive lead,

E’en as Cambodian groom with herbs will catch the fiercest steed.

But if when looking round with care they fail to see their way

To get possession of some wealth and make someone a prey,

They drive one off, as one that now has reached the furthest shore

And cuts adrift the ferry boat he needs not nevermore.

Like fierce devouring flame they hold one fast in their embrace,

Or sweep you off like stream in flood that hurries on apace.

They court the one they hate as much as one that they adore,

E’en as a ship that hugs alike the near and farther shore.

They not to one or two belong, like open stall are they,

One might as soon catch wind with net as desire holds in sway.

Like river, road, or drinking shed, assembly hall or inn,

So free to all are passion folk, no limits check their sin.

Fell as black serpent’s head are they, as ravenous as a fire,

As cows the choicest herbage pick, they lovers rich desire.

From elephant, black serpent, and from flame that’s fed on ghee,

From one destined for royalty, and passion we should flee.

All these whoso is on his guard will treat as deadly foe,

Indeed their very nature it is very hard to know.

The lustful who clever are or very fair to view,

And such as many these admire—all these one should eschew,

A neighbor’s spouse and one that seeks someone of wealth for mate,

Those who are lustful, five in all, no one should cultivate.

When he had spoken the people applauded the Great Being, crying, “Bravo, well said!” And after telling of the faults of passion in these instances, he held his peace.

When he heard him, Ānanda, the vulture king, said, “My friend, Kuṇāla, I, too, by my own powers of knowledge will tell of passion’s faults,” and he began to speak of them. The Blessed One, by way of illustration, said, “Then, verily, Ānanda, the vulture king, marking the beginning, middle, and end of what the bird Kuṇāla had to say uttered these stanzas:

Although someone with all this world contains of golden gear

Should one endow of deep lust one’s heart may count most dear,

Yet, if occasion serves, one will dishonor all withal—

Beware lest you into the hands of such vile wretches fall.

An honest virtue one may show, from worldly taint be free,

A lonely wooer may perhaps winsome and loving be,

In times of trouble and distress leave who one will and must,

I for my part in lustful kind can never put my trust.

Let one not trust because you think “they fancy me, I know,”

Nor let you trust because their tears oft in your presence flow.

They court the one they hate as much as one that they adore,

Just as a ship that hugs alike the near and farther shore.

Trust not a litter strewn with leaves and branches long ago,

Trust not your long-held friend, perchance now grown into a foe,

Trust not a king because you think, “My comrade once was he,

Trust not a person though they have been a good friend to thee.

The wanton are pleasure-seekers and unrestrained in lust,

Transgressors of the moral law, in such put not your trust.

Someone may feign unbounded love before a spouse’s face,

Distrust them, they are as common as any landing place.

Ready to mutilate or slay, from nothing do they shrink,

And after having cut a throat they e’en their blood would drink.

Let no one fix their love on them, creatures of passions base,

Licentious and as common as some Ganges landing place.

In speech they no distinction make between the false and true,

As cows the choicest herbage pick, rich lovers they pursue.

Someone they tempt with looks and smiles, another by their walk,

Some they attract by strange disguise, others by honeyed talk.

Dishonest, fierce and hard of heart, as sugar sweet their words,

There is no honor there for them, their virtue is so blurred.

Surely all lustful are vile, no limit bounds their shame,

Impassioned and audacious they, devouring as a flame.

The passioned are not so formed, so to love and that abhor,

They court the one they hate as much as one that they adore,

E’en as a ship that hugs alike the near and farther shore.

‘Tis not a case of love or hate with lustful folk we see,

It is for gold they hug someone, as parasites a tree.

Someone may corpses burn or e’en dead flowers from temples rake,

Be but a horse or elephant, or care of oxen take,

Yet desire after such low castes will run for money’s sake.

One nobly born they leave if poor, as ‘twere a low outcast,

To such a one, like carrion vile, if rich, they hasten fast.”

In this way Ānanda, the vulture king, keeping to facts within his own knowledge, tell of the bad qualities of the lustful, and then he held his peace. Nārada, too, after hearing what he had to say, keeping to what he himself knew, spoke of their bad qualities. In illustrating this the Master said: “Then verily Nārada, hearing the beginning, middle, and end of what Ānanda, the vulture king, had to say, at this point repeated these stanzas:

Four things can never sated be—listen to these my words—

Ocean, kings, brahmins, lustful kind, these four, O king of birds.

All streams in earth that find their home will not the ocean fill,

Though all may with its waters mix, something is lacking still.

A brahmin cons his Vedas and his legendary lore,

Yet still with sacred knowledge lacks and craves for more and more.

A king by conquest holds the world, its mountains, seas, and all,

The endless treasures it contains his very own may call,

Yet sighs for worlds beyond the sea, for this he counts too small.

The lustful may have spouses eight, compliant to their will,

All heroes bold, well competent love’s duties to fulfill,

Yet on a ninth for love they set, for something they lack still.

Craving like flames devours its prey,

Craving like floods sweep all away,

Cravings are pests, like thorns are they,

Craving for gold oft goes astray.

The one with net might catch the breeze,

Or single-handed bale out seas,

Clap with one hand, who once should dare

Ones thoughts let range on desire fair.

With desire, clever jades, Truth aye is found a rarity,

Their ways as much perplex as those of fishes in the sea.

Soft-speaking, ill to satisfy, as rivers hard to fill,

Down—down they sink, the lustful know should flee far from them still.

Seducing anyone, they tempt the holiest to their fall,

Down—down they sink, the lustful know should flee afar from all.

And whomsoever they may serve for gold or for desire,

They burn you up as fuel burns cast in a blazing fire.”

When Nārada had set forth the evils of lust, the Great Being once more illustrated the bad qualities by special instances.

To show this the Master said, “So verily the bird Kuṇāla, after learning the beginning, middle, and conclusion of what Nārada had to say, repeated these stanzas:

E’en a wise one may dare to exchange a word

With goblin foe armed with sharp whetted sword,

Fierce snake you may assail, but ne’er too bold

Alone with desire should one converse hold.

One’s reason is o’ercome by desire charms,

Speech, smiles, with dance and song, their only arms.

Unstable souls they harass, as erewhile

Fell demons, merchants slew in goblin isle.

Given to strong drink and meat, one tries in vain

To curb their appetite or lust restrain,

Like to some fabled monster of the deep,

Into their maw someone’s whole wealth they sweep.

Lust’s five-fold realm they own as their domain,

Their swelling pride uncurbed none may restrain.

As rivers all to ocean find their way,

So careless souls to desire fall a prey.

The one in whom the lustful take delight,

Moved by their greed or carnal appetite,

Yea such a one inflamed by strong desire,

They clean consume as fuel in the fire.

If one they know is rich, on them they fall

And off they carry you, your wealth and all,

Round you thus fired with lust their arms they fling,

As creepers to some forest sāl tree cling.

Like vimba fruit red-lipped, so bright and gay,

‘Gainst you they many a stratagem essay,

With laughter now assailing, now with smiles,

Like Saṃvara, that lord of many wiles.

The rich with gold and jewels rich bedecked,

By spouse’s kin received with due respect,

Though strictly guarded ‘gainst their spouse will sin,

Like one the demon’s maw conveyed within.

Someone may very famous be and wise,

Revered and honored in all people’s eyes,

Yet fall’n ‘neath desire sway no more will shine

Than moon eclipsed by Rāhu’s power malign.

The vengeance wreaked by angry foe on foe,

Or such as tyrants to their victims show,

Yea a worse fate than this o’ershadows all

That through their lust ‘neath desire sway shall fall.

Threatened with person scratched or hair pulled out,

Scourged, cudgeled, buffeted or kicked about,

Yet desire to some low-born lover lies

Delighting in it as in carrion flies.

Shun desire in highways and lordly hall,

In royal city or in township small,

Someone of insight, would he happy be,

Avoids the snare thus laid by Namuci.

He who relaxes good ascetic rule,

To practice what is mean and base, poor fool,

Will barter heaven for hell, like unto them

Who change a flawless for a blemished gem.

Despised is one in this world and the next

And, willingly by evil desire vexed,

Goes stumbling recklessly, fall upon fall,

As vicious ass runs wild with car and all.

Now in silk-cotton grove of iron spears,

Now in Patāpana he disappears,

Now lodged in some brute form is seen to flit

In ghostly realms that he may never quit.

In Nandana love’s heavenly sport and play,

On earth the monarch’s universal sway,

Is lost through desire, and through her alas!

All careless souls to state of suffering pass.

Not hard to attain are heavenly sport and play,

Nor upon earth the world-wide monarch’s sway,

Nymphs, too, in golden homes by these are won

Who with insatiate lust long since have done.

To pass from Realm of Sense with life renewed

To World of Form, with higher powers endued,

Is by rebirth in sphere of Arhats won

By these who with insatiate lust have done.

The bliss that does all sense of pain transcend,

Unwavering, unconditioned, without end,

Is by pure souls, now in Nirvāna, won

Who with insatiate lust long since have done.”

Thus did the Great Being, after bringing about their attainment of the Eternal Great Nirvāna, end his lesson. And the elves and mighty serpents and the like in the Himalayas, and the angels standing in the air, all applauded, saying, “Bravo! Spoken with all the charm of a Buddha.” Ānanda, the vulture king, Nārada, the brahmin angel, Puṇṇamukha, the royal cuckoo, each with his own following, retired to their respective places, and the Great Being, too, departed to his own hut. But the others from time to time returned and received instruction at the hands of the Great Being, and abiding by his admonition, they became destined to Heaven.