Mahā Sutosama Jātaka

Once upon a time, a king named Koravya exercised a righteous rule in the city of Indapatta in the kingdom of Kuru. The Bodhisatta was born as the child of his chief queen, and because of his fondness for pressed soma juice they called him Sutasoma. (Soma was a ritual drink of importance in the Vedic tradition. The identity of the exact plant is unknown.) When he had come of age, his father sent him to Takkasilā University to be educated by a teacher of world-wide renown. So he took his teacher’s fee and started on his way there.

At Benares, likewise, Prince Brahmadatta, son of the king of Kāsi, was sent by his father for a like purpose, and he set out on the same road. During his journey, Sutasoma sat down on a bench in a hall by the city gate to rest himself. Prince Brahmadatta, too, came and sat down with him on the same bench. After a friendly greeting, Sutasoma asked him, “Friend, you are tired from your journey. From where have you come?” He told him that he was from Benares. Then he asked whose son he was. “The son of Brahmadatta.” “And what is your name?” “Prince Brahmadatta.” “With what purpose have you come?” “To be instructed in arts,” he replied.

Then Prince Brahmadatta said, “You, too, are tired from your journey,” and he questioned him in a similar manner. Sutasoma told him all about himself. And they both thought, “We are two princes going to receive instruction in the arts at the hands of the same teacher,” and they struck up a friendship one with another. They entered the city where they went to the teacher’s house and saluted him. And after declaring their origin, they said that they had come to be instructed in the arts. He readily agreed to do so. They offered him the fee for instruction, then they began their studies.

But it was not just they but other princes who were in India at that time. There were 101 of them receiving instruction from the teacher. Sutasoma was the senior pupil. He soon attained proficiency in teaching, and without visiting the others he thought, “This is my friend.” He only spent time with Prince Brahmadatta. He became his private teacher. He soon educated him, while the others only acquired their learning gradually.

Nonetheless, they, too, after zealous application to their studies bade farewell to their teacher. They formed an escort for Sutasoma and set out on their return journey. Then Sutasoma stood in front of them. He dismissed them, saying, “After you have given proof of your learning to your respective fathers, you will each be established in your own kingdom. When you are so established, see that you obey my instructions.” “What are they, Master?” “On the days of the new and full moon, keep the Uposatha vows and abstain from taking the life of anything.” They readily agreed to this.

(Uposatha Days are holy days in Buddhism. They fall on the new, full, and quarter moons. It is the custom for lay people to spend the day at a monastery or temple and to obey the Eight Precepts. These are also known as the “Uposatha Vows.” They are 1) non-harming/killing, 2) not stealing, 3) celibacy, 4) refraining from false speech, 5) abstaining from intoxicants, 6) not eating after noon, 7) abstaining from entertainments and adorning oneself, and 8) abstaining from sleeping on “high beds.”)

Because of his power of foretelling the future, the Bodhisatta knew that great danger would fall to the prince of Benares. And thus, after due admonition, he dismissed them.

They all returned to their own countries. And after an exhibition of their learning to their fathers, they succeeded to their respective kingdoms. To make known the fact that they were adhering to his admonition, they sent letters with a present to Sutasoma. When he learned that they were heeding his admonitions, the Great Being answered their letters, urging them to be earnest in the faith.

One of them, the king of Benares, never ate his rice meal without meat. But to observe the holy day, his courtiers would take their meat and put it to one side. Now one day when the meat was thus reserved, because of the cook’s carelessness, the well-bred dogs in the king’s palace ate it. When the cook could not find the meat, he took a handful of coins and tried to procure some meat. When he could not, he said, “If I serve a meal without meat, I am a dead man. What am I to do?” But he thought, “There is still a way.” Late in the evening he went to a cemetery where dead bodies are exposed. He took some flesh from the thigh of a man who had just died, roasted it thoroughly, and served it up as a meal.

No sooner was a bit of the meat placed on the tip of the king’s tongue then it sent a thrill through the 7,000 nerves of taste and continued to create a disturbance throughout his whole body. This was because he had previously resorted to this food. For it is said that as a Yakkha, in the birth immediately preceding this, he had eaten quantities of human flesh, and so it was agreeable to his taste. The king thought, “If I eat this in silence, he will not tell me what this meat is.” So he spit, and in so doing, a piece fall to the ground. When the cook said, “You may eat it, sire, there is nothing wrong with it.” He ordered all his attendants to retire.

He said, “I know it is all right, but what meat is it?” “What your Majesty has enjoyed on previous days.” “Surely the meat did not have this flavor at any other time?” “It was well cooked today, sire.” “Surely you cooked it exactly like this before?” Then seeing him reduced to silence, he said, “Either tell me the truth or you are a dead man.” So he prayed for an assurance of immunity and told the exact truth. The king said, “Do not say a word about it. You are to eat the usual roast meat and cook human flesh only for me.” “Surely this is a difficult matter, sire.” “Do not be afraid. There is no difficulty.” “From where will I be able to get it?” “Are there not numbers of men in prison?” From then on, he acted on this suggestion.

By and by, when prisoners failed him, he said, “What am I to do now?” The king said, “Throw a parcel of a thousand gold coins down in the high road and seize anyone that picks it up as a thief and put him to death.” He did so. By and by, he was unable to find anyone who would even look at the packet of money. He said, “Now what am I to do?” “At the time when a drum sounds the night watches, the city is crowded with people. Then, taking your stand in a hiding place of a house wall or at an intersection. Strike down a man and carry off some of his flesh.”

Figure: The King loves his subjects.

From that day on he used to come with some fat flesh, and dead bodies were found in various places. A sound of lamentation was heard. “I have lost my father, I have lost my mother, or brother or sister.” The men of the city were panic stricken. They said, “Surely some lion or tiger or demon has devoured these people.” On examining the bodies, they saw what looked like a gaping wound and said, “Why it must be a man that eats their flesh!” The people gathered in the palace yard and filed a complaint. The king asked, “What is it, my friends?” “Sire,” they said, “in this city there is some man-eating robber. Have him seized.” “How am I to know who it is? Am I to walk around and guard the city?” The people said, “The king has not a care for the city?” “We will report it to the commander-in-chief, Kāḷahatthi.”

They told Kāḷahatthi, and he said, “You must search for this robber.” He answered, “Wait for seven days. I will seek out the robber and hand him over to you.” And dismissing the people, he gave orders to his officers, saying, “My friends, they say there is a man-eating robber in this city. You are to lay an ambush in various places and capture him.” They said, “All right,” and from that day on, they surrounded the whole city.

Now the cook was concealed in a hole in the wall of a house. He killed a woman and began to fill his basket with pieces of solid flesh. The officers seized him, and they beat him. They tied his arms behind him and raised a loud cry, “We have caught the man-eating robber!” A crowd of people gathered around them. They beat him soundly. They fastened the basket of flesh around his neck. Then they brought him before the commander-in-chief. When he saw him, he thought, “Can it be that this fellow eats this flesh, or does he mix it with other meat and sell it? Or does he kill people at the bidding of somebody else?” And looking into the matter he spoke the first stanza:

Master of dainty flavors, what dire need

Has urged you on to do this dreadful deed?

Have you for food to eat or wealth to gain,

Misguided wretch, these men and women slain?

The verses that follow are of obvious connection and are to be understood as uttered by alternate speakers in accordance with the scripture context:

Neither for wife or child, friends, kin or wealth,

Nor did I slay this woman for myself.

My gracious lord, the sovereign of this land,

Eats human flesh, I killed at his command.

If thus suborned to sate your master’s greed

You have been guilty of this awful deed,

Let us at early dawn seek out the king

And in his face the accusation fling.

O Kālahatthi, worshipful good lord,

So will I do according to your word,

At early dawn I will seek out the king

And in his face this accusation fling.

So the commander had him seized, firmly bound, and at dawn he met with his officers. They were unanimous. He stationed guards in every direction. And having gotten the city well in hand, he bound the basket of flesh on the cook’s neck. Then he went off with him to the palace.

The whole city was in an uproar. The king had breakfasted the day before, but he had gone without his supper and spent the whole night in a sitting posture. He expected the cook to come at any moment. “Today, too,” he thought, “the cook does not come, and I hear a great uproar in the city. What can it all be about?” He looked out of the window where he saw the man being dragged there as described. Thinking he had been discovered, he plucked up his courage and took his seat on his throne. Then Kāḷahatthi drew near and questioned him, and the king answered him.

The Master, to make the matter clear, said:

‘Twas now sunrise and day had scarce begun to break,

As Kāḷa to the court with cook his way did take,

And drawing near the king words such as these he spake.

“Sire, is it true this cook was sent into the street,

And men and women killed to furnish you with meat?”

“Kāḷa, ‘tis even so, ‘twas done at my request,

Why blame him then for what he did at my behest?”

On hearing this the commander-in-chief thought, “With his own mouth he confesses it. Oh, the scoundrel! All this time he has been eating men. I will stop him from this.” He said, “Sire, do not this thing. Do not eat the flesh of men.” “Kāḷahatthi, what is it you say? I cannot stop it.” “Sire, if you do not cease, you will destroy both yourself and your realm.” “Even if my realm is destroyed, I cannot stop it.” Then the commander, to bring him to a better mind, told him this story by way of illustration.

Once upon a time there were six monster fish in the ocean. Among them were Ānanda, Timanda, and Ajjhohāra. These three were 500 leagues long. The fish Tītimīti, Miṅgala, Timirapiṅgala were a thousand leagues long. All of them fed on the rock-sevāla weed (the aquatic plant vallisneria). Ānanda lived on one side of the ocean, and many fish came to see him.

One day they thought, “All bipeds and quadrupeds have kings. But we have no king. We will make this fish our king.” And being all of one mind, they made Ānanda their king. From that day on the fish came to pay their respects to him evening and morning.

One day Ānanda was feeding on rock-sevāla on a certain mountain. He unwittingly ate a fish, thinking it to be sevāla. Its flesh was pleasing to his taste. He wondered what it could be that was so very sweet. He took it out of his mouth and saw that it was a piece of fish. He thought, “All this long time in my ignorance I never ate this. Now, in the evening and morning when the fish come to pay their respects to me, I will devour one or two of them. If I make it too clear to them when they are being eaten, not a single one will come near me, but they will all scurry off.” So lying in concealment, he struck at any that were lagging, and he devoured them.

As their numbers gradually diminished, the fish thought, “What is this peril that threatens us?” Then a sage among them thought, “I am not satisfied with what Ānanda is doing. I will investigate what he is about.” And when the fish went to pay homage to Ānanda, the sage hid in the lobe of Ānanda’s ear. After dismissing the fish, Ānanda devoured those that were straggling behind. The wise fish saw this and reported it to the others. They all were panic-stricken and fled.

From that day on, in his greedy longing for the flavor of fish, Ānanda refused every other kind of food. But because the fish stayed away, he grew sick from hunger. He thought, “Where in the world can they have gone?” In searching for them he saw a certain mountain and thought, “From fear of me the fish, I think, are living near this mountain. I will encircle it and keep a watch over it.” So he encircled it with his head and tail. He encompassed it on both sides. He thought, “If they live here, they will try to escape.” He caught sight of his own tail as it coiled around the mountain. He thought, “This fish lives near the mountain and is trying to elude me.” In his rage he seized his own tail, which was fifty leagues long, and believing he had gotten hold of a fish, he bit down on it with a crunching sound.

He suffered excruciating pain. At the smell of the blood, the fish gathered. They pulled bit after bit out of Ānanda’s tail. They ate it up until they reached his head. Having such a big body he could not turn around, and then and there he came to his end. There was a heap of bones as big as a mountain. Holy ascetics, male and female, travelling through space, saw it and told men of it. And the inhabitants of all India knew of it. Kāḷahatthi, by way of illustration, told this story and said:

Ānanda ate of every fish and when his suite had fled,

He his own tail right greedily devoured till he was dead.

The slave to appetite no other pleasure knows,

Poor careless fool, so blind is he to coming woes.

His children, kith and kin in ruin low will lay,

Then turns and rends himself, to monstrous greed a prey.

To these my words, O king, I pray you, hearken well,

Eat not the flesh of men, forego your purpose fell.

Lest you perchance should share that fish’s awful fate

And leave, O lord of men, your kingdom desolate.

On hearing this the king said, “Kāḷahatthi, I, too, know an example as well as you.” In an instant he told an old story in illustration of his greed for human flesh and said:

Sujāta’s son and heir for some rose-apples loudly cried,

For loss of them the lad so grieved, he laid him down and died.

So, Kāḷa, I who now long time have fed on daintiest fare,

Failing this human flesh, I think, for life would cease to care.

Once upon a time, they say, a landed gentleman named Sujāta lived in his park at Benares. He ministered to 500 ascetics who had come down from the Himalayas to procure salt and vinegar. Food was constantly set out in his house for them. But these ascetics sometimes went on a pilgrimage for alms in the country, and they brought back pieces of big rose-apples to eat.

One day when they were feeding on the rose-apples they had brought, Sujāta thought, “Today it is the third or fourth day that these holy men have not come to me here. Where in the world can they have gone?” So having his little boy take hold of his hand, he went there while they were taking their repast. At that moment a novice was giving the elders water with which to rinse their mouths, and he was eating a bit of rose-apple. Sujāta saluted the ascetics, and when he had seated, he asked, “Holy sirs, what are you eating?” “Pieces of large rose-apples, sir.” When he heard this, the boy felt thirsty. So the leader of the company of ascetics had a small piece given to him. The boy ate it, and he was so charmed with the delicate flavor that he kept on begging them to give him another piece.

The gentleman, who was listening to the preaching of the Dharma, said, “Do not cry. When you get home, you shall have a piece to eat.” In this way he deceived the boy for fear that the holy brothers might be worn out by his cries. So comforting the boy, he took his leave of the band of ascetics and returned home.

From the moment they arrived there the boy kept up a cry of “Give me a piece.” Meanwhile the ascetics said, “We have stayed here a long time,” and they departed for the Himalayas. Not finding the boy in the park, the ascetics sent him a present of mangoes, rose-apples, bread-fruit, bananas and other fruits, all mixed with powdered sugar. This mixture was no sooner placed on the tip of his tongue than it acted like a deadly poison. For seven days he took no food and then died. The king told this story by way of illustration.

Then Kāḷahatthi thought, “This king is a glutton. I will tell him further instances.” He said, “Great king, stop this.” “It is impossible,” he said. “If you do not desist, you will gradually be dropped by your family circle and deprived of your kingly glory.”

Once upon a time in this very Benares, there was a brahmin family which kept the Five Moral Precepts. An only son was born to this family. He was the darling and delight of his parents, a wise lad and well versed in the Three Vedas. He used to go about in the company of a band of youths the same age as himself. The other members of the company ate fish, meat, and similar food, and they took strong drink. But the young boy neither ate meat nor drank strong drink.

The thought struck them, “Because he takes no strong drink, this boy is disrespecting us. Let us devise a plan to make him drink.” So when they were gathered, they said, “My friend, let us hold a festival.” He said, “You drink strong drink, but I do not. You go without me.” “Friend, we will take some milk for you to drink.” He consented, saying, “All right.”

The rogues went to the garden and tied up some fiery spirit in a leaf cup and put it among some lotus leaves. So when they began to drink, they offered the lad some milk. One of the rogues cried, “Bring us some lotus nectar.” He had it brought to him. He cut a hole in the bottom of the leaf cup placed in the lotus, and putting it to his mouth, he sucked it. The others, too, had some brought to them and drank it. The lad asked what it was, believing it to be lotus nectar. Then they offered him some broiled meat and this, too, he ate. And when from repeated draughts of liquor he was intoxicated, they told him, “This is no lotus nectar. It is spirit!” “All this while,” he said, “I never knew what a sweet taste was. Bring me more strong drink, I say!” They brought it and once more gave it him, for he was very thirsty. Then when he asked for more, they told him it was all gone. He said, “Come, I say! Fetch me some more.” He gave them his signet ring. After drinking with them all day, he was quite drunk. His eyes were bloodshot. He was trembling and babbling. Then he went home and lay down.

His father found out that he had been drinking. When the effects of it wore off, he said to him, “My son, you have done wrong. You are a member of a brahmin family. You should never drink strong drink. Do not do this ever again.” “Dear father, what is my offence?” “Drinking strong drink.” “How say you, father? In all my life I never before tasted anything so sweet.” The brahmin repeatedly implored him to give it up. “I cannot do it,” he said. Then the brahmin thought, “If this is so, our family tradition will be destroyed, and our wealth will perish.” He repeated this stanza:

An offspring of a brahmin house, withall a comely boy,

You must not drink the accursed thing no brahmin may enjoy.

And after these words he said, “My dear son, abstain from it, otherwise I shall put you out of my house and have you banished from my kingdom.” The lad said, “Even so, I cannot give up strong drink,” and he repeated two stanzas:

Since, father, from this best of tastes you now would me debar,

To get it, where it may be found I’ll go however far.

Depart will I in haste and ne’er dwell with you once more,

For now the very sight of me, I think, you do abhor.

Moreover he said, “I will not abstain from drinking spirits. Do what you please.” Then the brahmin said, “Well, as you give us up, we, too, will give you up,” and he repeated this stanza:

Surely some other sons we’ll find as heirs our wealth to claim,

Go, rascal, where we never more may hear your cursed name.

Then taking his son into court, he disinherited him and had him driven out of his house.

Later this youth became a poor, destitute wretch. He put on a coarse garment, and taking a beggar’s bowl in his hand, he went begging for alms. Finally, while resting against a wall, he died.

Kāḷahatthi related this incident as a lesson to the king. He said, “If, sire, you refuse to listen to our words, you will be banished from the kingdom.” And so saying, he spoke this stanza:

So listen well, O king of men, obeying my command,

Or like that drunken youth will you be banished from the land.

But even after this story from Kāḷahatthi, the king could not stop this habit. And to illustrate yet another story he said:

Disciple of the Perfect Saints, Sujāta, it is said,

Abstained from food and drink through love felt for a heavenly maid.

As dewdrop on a blade of grass to waters of the sea,

Is human love compared with love for some divinity.

So, Kāḷa, I who now long time have fed on daintiest fare,

Failing this human flesh, I think, for life would cease to care.

The story is just like the one already related.

This Sujāta, they say, saw that the ascetics did not return after eating pieces of rose-apple. He thought, “I wonder why they do not come back. If they have gone away, I will find it out. Otherwise I will listen to their teaching.” So he went to the park and heard the Dharma preached by the leader of the company. When the sun had set, he was dismissed. But he said, “I will remain here today.” And saluting the company of saints, he went into his hut of leaves and lay down.

That night Sakka, king of heaven, came to pay his respects to the band of ascetics. He was accompanied by a troop of devas along with his handmaids. The whole hermitage was one blaze of light. Sujāta wondered what was happening. He rose up and looked through a chink in his hut of leaves. He saw Sakka come to salute the company attended by a troop of heavenly Apsarasas (celestial beings). No sooner did he see them then he was fired with passion. Sakka took a seat, and after listening to a discourse on the Dharma, he departed to his own realm.

On the next day the landed proprietor saluted the ascetics and asked, “Who was it, reverend sirs, who came in the night to pay his respects to you?” “Sakka, sir.” “And who were those that sat round about him?” “They are called heavenly Apsarasas.” Saluting the band of ascetics, he went home.

From the moment he got there he kept up a foolish cry of “Give me an Apsarasa.” His kinsmen, standing around him, wondered if he were possessed by an evil spirit, and they snapped their fingers. He said, “It is not this snapping of the fingers I speak of, but of the heavenly Apsarasa.” And when they dressed up and brought to him a wife or even a courtesan and said, “Here is an Apsarasa,” he said, “This is no Apsarasa, it is a female ghoul,” and he went on with his foolish cry. “Give me an Apsarasa!” And taking no food, he died.

On hearing this Kāḷahatthi said, “This king is a great glutton. I will bring him to a better mind.” He said, “The golden geese, too, that travel through the air perished from eating the flesh of their kin.” And to illustrate this he repeated two stanzas:

Just as these dhataraṭtha geese that travel through the air

All died because they lived upon a most unnatural fare,

So, too, do you, O king of men, listen to what I say,

For eating this unlawful food, you, too, they’ll drive away.

(“Dhataraṭtha” are golden geese.)

Once upon a time, they say, 90,000 geese lived in Golden Cave on Mount Cittakūṭa. For four months in the rainy season, they do not go out. If they do, their wings would be full of water. They are not able to make a long flight, and they would fall into the sea. Therefore they do not go out. But when the rainy season draws near, they gather wild rice from a natural lake, and filling their cave with it, they live on rice.

But no sooner had they entered the cave than an uṇṇanābhi (arachnid) spider as big as a chariot wheel used to spin a web every month at the entrance of the cave. Each thread of it was as thick as a cow’s halter. The geese would give two portions of food to a young goose, thinking he would then be able to break through the web. In this way, when the sky cleared, this young goose severed the web, and they were all able to escape.

Now once the rainy season lasted five months, and the food of the geese grew short. They discussed what was to be done. They said, “If we are to live, we must eat the eggs.” First they ate the eggs, then the goslings, and after that the old geese. After five months the rain ended. The spider had spun five webs, and the geese had grown weak from eating the flesh of their kin. The young goose that had received a double portion of food struck at the web. He broke four of the webs, but he could not break the fifth, and he stuck there. So the spider cut off his head and drank his blood. First one and then another came and struck the web, and the spider said, “Here’s another of them stuck in the same place.” He sucked the blood of all of them, and at that time the family of the dhataraṭṭha geese became extinct, they say.

The king was anxious to give yet another illustration, but the citizens rose up and said, “My lord commander, what do you propose to do? How will you proceed now that you have caught the man-eating rogue? If he does not stop, have him expelled from his kingdom.” And they would not allow the king to say a word. Hearing the talk of the people, the king was terrified and could say nothing more. Once again the commander said to him, “Sire, will it be possible for you to give it up?” “Impossible,” he said. So the commander placed his harem along with his sons and his daughters on one side. They were arrayed in all their splendor. Then he said, “Sire, behold this circle of your kinsfolk, this band of councilors, and your royal court. Do not be undone. Cease from eating man’s flesh.” The king said, “All this is not dearer to me than man’s flesh.” “Then depart, sire, from this city and kingdom.” “Kāḷahatthi,” he said, “I do not want my kingdom. I am ready to depart but grant me one favor. Let me have my sword and my cook.” So they let him take a sword, a vessel for cooking man’s flesh, and a basket, and giving him his cook, they carried out his expulsion from the kingdom.

Taking his cook, he set out from the city. He entered a forest and made his dwelling at the foot of a banyan tree. Living there he would take his stand on the road which led through the forest, and killing men, he would bring their bodies and give them to the cook. And he cooked the flesh and served it up, and both of them lived in this manner.

And when he ventured forth, crying, “Here I am, the man-eating robber!” no one could hold his own. They all fell to the ground, and any one of them that he fancied, he seized—heels upwards or not as it might happen—and gave him to his cook.

One day, he did not find any man in the forest. On his return the cook said, “How is this, sire?” He told him to put the pot on the brasier (a charcoal fire). “But where is the meat, sire?” “Oh! I will find some meat,” he said. The cook thought, “I am a dead man.” Trembling, he made a fire and put the pot on the brasier. Then the man-eater killed him with a stroke of his sword and cooked and ate his flesh.

Afterwards he was quite alone, and he had to cook his food himself. The rumor spread throughout all India: “The man-eater murders wayfaring men.”

At that time a certain wealthy brahmin who traded with 500 wagons was travelling from the east in a westerly direction. He thought, “This man-eating robber, they say, murders men on the road. By paying bribes, I will make my way through the forest.” So he paid a thousand gold coins to the people who lived at the entrance of the forest, instructing them to convey him safely through it. Then he set out on the road with them. He placed his caravan in front of him, and having bathed and anointed himself and put on sumptuous apparel, he seated himself in a carriage drawn by white oxen. And escorted by his convoy he travelled last of all.

The man-eater climbed up a tree was on the lookout for men. But even though he felt no appetite for any of the rest of the convoy, no sooner did he catch sight of the brahmin then his mouth watered from the desire to eat him. When the brahmin came up to him, he proclaimed his name, crying, “Here I am, the man-eating robber.” And brandishing his sword, like one filling men’s eyes with sand, he leaped upon them. No man was able to stand up against him, and they all fell on the ground. Seizing the brahmin by the foot as he sat in his carriage, he slung him on his back, head downwards, and struck his head against his heels to carried him off.

But the men rose up, crying to one another, “Ho! My man, alert yourself. We received a thousand gold coins from the brahmin’s hands. Who among us is a man? Let us, one and all, strong man or weakling, pursue him.” They went after him. The man-eater stopped and looked back. He did not see anyone, so he went slowly on.

At that moment a bold fellow running at full speed went up to him. When he saw him, the robber leaped over a fence and landed on an acacia splinter. It drove into his foot, coming out at the top. The robber went limping along with the blood trickling from the wound. On seeing this, his pursuer said, “Surely I have wounded him. You follow on behind, and I will catch him.” They saw how feeble the robber was and joined in the pursuit. When the robber saw that he was being chased, he dropped the brahmin and secured his own safety.

As soon as they had recovered the brahmin, they thought, “What have we got to do with this robber?” and they turned back. But the man-eater, going to the foot of his banyan tree, lay down among the shoots. He offered up a prayer to the spirit of the tree, saying, “My lady, nymph of the tree, if you can heal my wound within seven days, I will bathe your trunk with blood from the throats of 101 princes from all India. I will hang their inwards all around the tree and offer up a sacrifice of the five sweet kinds of flesh.”

Now, because he had nothing to eat or drink, his body wasted away, but in seven days his wound healed. He thought that his cure was due to the tree-nymph, and in a few days he recovered his strength by eating man’s flesh. He thought, “The spirit has been very helpful to me. I will fulfill my vow.” Taking his sword, he ventured forth from the foot of the tree with the purpose of bringing the kings.

Now, there was a Yakkha who had gone about as his comrade, eating man’s flesh with him. In a former existence the man-eater had also been a Yakkha. The Yakkha caught sight of him, and knowing that he had been his friend in a former existence, he asked him, “Do you recognize me, friend?” “I do not,” he said. Then he told him about something they had done in a former state, and the man-eater recognized him and gave him a kind greeting. When asked where he had been reborn, he told him of his place of birth and how he had been banished from his kingdom and where he was now living. He told him, moreover, how he had been wounded by a splinter, and that he was now going on an expedition to redeem his promise to the tree-nymph. “I must achieve this purpose of mine with your help. We will go together, my friend,” he said. “I cannot go, but there is one service I can render you. I know a spell using words of priceless value. It ensures strength, speed of foot, and an increase of prestige. Learn this spell.” He readily agreed to this, and the goblin gave it to him and went off.

The man-eater learned the spell by heart, and from that time on he became as swift as the wind and very bold. Within seven days he found 101 kings on their ways to parks and other places. He leaped upon them with the swiftness of the wind, proclaiming his name, and by jumping about and shouting, he greatly terrified them. Then he seized them by the feet and held them head downwards, and striking their heads with his heels, he carried them off with the swiftness of the wind. Next he drilled holes in the palms of their hands and hung them up by a cord on the banyan tree, and the wind struck them as they just touched the ground with the tips of their toes. So they hung on the tree, revolving like withered wreaths of flowers in baskets. But he thought, “Sutasoma was my private teacher. Do not let India be altogether desolate,” and he did not bring him.

Thinking to make an offering to the tree, he lit a fire and sat down, sharpening a stake. When the tree-nymph saw this, she thought, “He is preparing to offer a sacrifice to me. But I was not the one that healed his wound. He will now make a great slaughter. What is to be done? I will not be able to stop him.”

So she went and told the Four Great Kings about it and asked them stop him. When they said they could not do it, she approached Sakka. She told him the whole story and asked him to stop him. He said, “I cannot do it, but I will tell you someone who can.” She said, “Who is that?” “In the world of men and gods,” he answered, “there is no one else, but in the city of Indapatta in the Kuru kingdom is Sutasoma, prince of Kuru. He will tame and humble this man and will save the lives of these kings. He will cure him of eating human flesh and will shower nectar over all India. If you are anxious to save the lives of the kings, have him first bring Sutasoma, and then offer his sacrifice to the tree.” “All right,” said the tree-spirit.

She went quickly disguised as an ascetic. She approached the man-eater. At the sound of footsteps he thought, “Can one of the kings have escaped?” Looking up and seeing the ascetic he thought, “Ascetics surely are kshatriyas (a caste). If I capture him, I shall make up the full number of 101 kings and offer my sacrifice.” He. rose up, and sword in hand, he pursued the ascetic. But even though he chased him for three leagues, he could not overtake him. Streams of sweat poured from his limbs. He thought, “I once could pursue and catch an elephant or horse or chariot going at full speed. But today, even though I am running with all my might, I cannot catch this ascetic who is just going his natural pace. What can be the reason for this?” Then he thought, “Ascetics are required to obey. If I ask him to stand and he does so, I will catch him.”

He cried, “Stand, holy sir.” “I am standing,” he answered, “do you too try and stand.” Then he said, “Ho there! Ascetics do not tell a lie even to save their life, but you speak falsely,” and he repeated this stanza:

Although I bid you stand, you still do forward fly,

And crying “Lo! I stand,” I think you do but lie.

Unseemly ‘tis, this sword, O priest, you must assume

To be a harmless shaft equipped with heron’s plume.

(A heron's feather was fixed on an arrow.)

Then the nymph spoke a couple of stanzas:

Steadfast in righteousness am I,

Nor change my name or family,

Here robbers but brief moment dwell,

Soon doomed to pass to woes of hell.

Be bold and captive here great Sutasoma bring

And by his sacrifice you will win heaven, O king.

With these words the nymph shed her disguise as an ascetic and stood revealed in her own form, blazing in the sky like the sun.

When he heard what she had to say and seeing her true form, the man-eater asked who she was. She replied that she had come to life as the spirit of this tree. He was delighted. He thought, “I have looked upon my guardian deity. O heavenly sovereign, do not worry about Sutasoma, but enter once more into your tree.”

The spirit entered the tree before his very eyes. At that moment the sun set, and the moon arose. Being well versed in the Vedas and their auxiliaries and acquainted with the movements of the astral bodies. the man-eater looked at the sky and thought, “Tomorrow it will be the Phussa asterism (a pattern or alignment of stars). Sutasoma will come to the park to bathe, and then will I lay hands on him. But he will have a strong guard, and the people throughout all India will come to guard him for three leagues around. At the first watch, before the guard is posted, I will go to the Migācira park and descend into the royal tank. There I will take my stand.”

So he went down into the tank and stood there, covering his head with a lotus leaf. By reason of his great glory the fish, tortoises, and the like fell back and swam about in large bodies at the water’s edge. From where, it may be asked, came this glory of his? From his devotion in a former existence. For at the time when Kassapa was Buddha, he started a distribution of milk by ticket. Because of this he became very mighty. He got the Saṇgha to erect a hall for a fire to dispel the cold. He provided fire, firewood, and an axe to cut the wood. As the result of this he became famous.

So now when he had gone into the garden, while it was still early dawn, they picked a guard for three leagues around. Quite early in the morning after breakfast, King Sutasoma mounted on a richly adorned elephant. With a complete force of four arms (soldiers, charioteers, elephants, and archers), he ventured from the city.

At that very moment a brahmin named Nanda from Takkasilā brought him four stanzas. Each was worth 100 gold coins. Then he reached the city after a journey of 120 leagues. There he took up his residence in a suburb.

At sunrise when he entered the city, he saw the king leaving by the eastern gate. He raised his hand and cried, “Victory to the king.” Now the king was far-sighted. As he was riding along, he saw the outstretched hand of the brahmin as he stood on some rising ground. He drew near to him on his elephant and spoke in this manner:

Born in what realm and why, I pray,

Do you come here, O brahmin, say.

This said, today I grant to thee

Your prayer, whatever it may be.

Then the brahmin answered him:

Four verses, mighty king, to thee

Of import deep as is the sea

I bring here, listen to them well,

Secrets of highest worth they tell.

“Great king,” he said, “these four verses were taught to me by the Buddha Kassapa. They are worth 100 gold coins each. And having heard that you take pleasure in libations of soma juice, I have come to teach you.”

The king was greatly pleased and said, “Master, in this you have done well, but it is impossible for me to turn back. Today, because it is the Phussa conjunction, it is the day for bathing my head. When I return, I will listen to you. Be do not be displeased with me.”

And with these words he told his councilors, “Go, and in a certain house of a brahmin prepare a couch and arrange a dining place under cover.” Then he retired into his park.

The park was surrounded by a wall that was eighteen cubits (a cubit is about 18 inches) high and guarded all around by elephants within touch of one another. Then came horses, then chariots, and finally archers and other foot-soldiers. The army was like a mighty troubled ocean that had been transported there. The king, when he had put off his heavy adornments and had been shaved and shampooed, bathed in all his royal majesty in the lotus tank. He came up out of the water and stood there clothed in bathing garments. They brought him scented garlands to adorn him.

The man-eater thought, “When he is fully dressed, the king must be heavy. I will seize him when he is light to carry.” So shouting and jumping about and whirling a sword above his head as quick as lightning, he proclaimed his name, crying, “Ho! Here I am, the man-eating robber,” He laid his finger on his forehead and stepped out of the water.

As soon as they heard his cry, the elephant-riders with their elephants, the horsemen with their horses, and the charioteers with their chariots fell to the ground. All the host dropped their weapons and fell on their bellies.

The man-eater seized Sutasoma, holding him erect. He had caught the rest of the kings by the foot and held them head downwards. Then he had gone off with them, knocking their heads against his heels. But when he came up to the Bodhisatta, he stooped down, and lifting him up, he placed him on his shoulders. Thinking it would be a long way to the gate, he leaped over the wall at the point where it faced him. Going forward he trampled on the temples of elephants exuding the juice of rut, overthrowing them as it were mountain peaks. Next he walked on the backs of the horses. They were as swift as the wind and of priceless worth. Then as he stepped on the fronts of the splendid chariots. he was like one whirling a spinning top or one crushing the dark green phalaka plant or banyan leaves. At a single burst he ran three leagues.

Then—wondering if anyone had followed to rescue Sutasoma—he looked up. Seeing no one, he went on slowly. But he noticed the drops that fell on him from Sutasoma’s hair He thought, “There is no man living free from the fear of death. Sutasoma, too, I think, is weeping from this fear.” He said:

Men versed in lore, in whom high thoughts arise,

Such never weep, the learned and the wise.

All find herein a refuge and a stay,

That sages thus can sorrow drive away.

Is it your kin, wife, child, perchance yourself,

Your stores of grain, your gold and silver pelf—

What, Sutasoma, caused your tears to flow?

Great Kuru lord, your answer we would know.

(“Pelf” is money.)

Sutasoma said:

No, no tears am I shedding for myself,

Nor for my wife or child, my realm or pelf.

The practice of the saints of old I keep,

And for a promise unfulfilled I weep.

Once to a brahmin I my word did plight,

What time in mine own realm I ruled with might.

That promised word I soon would keep and then,

My honor saved, return to you again.

Then the man-eater said:

I’ll not believe if anyone should be

By happy chance from jaws of death set free,

He would return to yield him to his foe,

No more would you, if I should let you go.

Escaped from fierce man-eater should you come,

Full of sweet longings, to your royal home,

Dear life with all its charms restored to thee,

Why in the world should you come back to me?

On hearing this the Great Being, like a fearless lion, said:

If innocent, a man would death prefer

To life o’erclouded with some odious slur.

Should he, to save his life, a falsehood tell,

It may not shield him from the woes of hell.

The wind may sooner move some mountain high,

Or sun and moon to earth fall from the sky,

Yea, rivers all up stream may flow, my lord,

If I be guilty of one lying word.

Though he spoke thus, the man-eater still did not believe him. So the Bodhisatta thought, “He does not believe me. By means of an oath I will make him believe.” He said, “Good Mister Man-eater, let me down from your back, and I will take an oath and make you believe me.” The man-eater let him down by and placed him on the ground. Then he took the following oath:

Lo! As I touch this spear and sword

To you I pledge my solemn word,

Release me and I will debt-free,

My honor saved, return to thee.

Then the man-eater thought, “This Sutasoma swears under the penalty of violating kshatriya rules. What do I want with him? Well, I, too, am a kshatriya king. I will take blood from my own arm and make an offering to the spirit of the tree. This is a very faint-hearted fellow.” And he said:

The word you once did to a brahmin plight,

What time in your own realm you ruled with might,

That promised word I bid you keep and then,

Your honor saved, return to me again.

Then the Great Being said, “My friend, do not distress yourself. After I have heard the four verses and have made an offering to the preacher of the Dharma, I will return at daybreak.” And he spoke this stanza:

The word I once did to a brahmin plight,

What time in mine own realm I ruled with might,

That promised word I first will keep and then,

My honor saved, return to you again.

Then the man-eater said: “You have taken an oath under penalty of violating the custom of kshatriyas. See that you act accordingly.” “My man-eating friend,” he said, “you have known me from a boy. Never—even in jest—have I ever told a lie. And now that I am established on the throne and know right and wrong, why should I lie? Trust me, I will provide an offering for you.” Being convinced to believe him, he said, “Well, sire, depart. And, if you do not return, there can be no offering. The spirit does not agree to it without you. Do not place any obstacle in the way of my offering.” Then he let the Great Being go.

Like the moon escaped from the jaws of Rāhu and with the strength of a young elephant, he speedily reached the city. His soldiers thought, “King Sutasoma is wise and a sweet preacher of the Dharma. If he can have a word or two with him, he will convert the man-eater. He will return like a furious elephant escaping from the lion’s mouth.” And thinking, “The people will chide us and say, ‘After giving up your king to the man-eater are you coming back to us?’ They remained encamped outside the city walls. When they saw him coming from far off, they went out to meet him. They saluted him with a friendly greeting, then they asked, “Were you not, sire, heartily sick of the man-eater?” “The man-eater,” he said, “did something far harder than anything my parents ever did. For being such a fierce and violent creature, after listening to my preaching of the Dharma, he let me go.” Then they decked out the king, and mounting him on an elephant, they escorted him into the city.

When they saw him, the inhabitants rejoiced. Because of his zeal for the Dharma, he did not visit his parents, but he thought, “I will see them by and by.” He entered his palace and took his seat on his throne. Then he summoned the brahmin and gave orders for him to be shaved. And when his hair and beard had been trimmed, and he was washed and anointed and decked out with brave apparel, they brought him to the king.

When the brahmin was presented, Sutasoma took a bath and ordered his own food to be given to the brahmin. And when he had eaten, he himself partook of the food. Then he seated the brahmin on a costly throne, and to mark his reverence for him, he made offerings of scented garlands and the like to him. Then he seated himself on a low seat and prayed, “Master, we would hear the verses that you have brought to us.”

To throw light upon this the Master said:

Released from fierce man-eater’s hand he flies

To brahmin friend and “Glad would we,” he cries,

“Hear stanzas worth a hundred pieces each,

Us for our good if you would deign to teach.”

When the Bodhisatta made his request and after shampooing his hands with perfumes, the brahmin pulled a beautiful book out of a bag. He took it in both hands and said, “Well, sire, listen to my four stanzas. Each one is worth 100 gold coins. They were taught to me by Kassapa Buddha. They are destructive of passion, pride, and similar vices. They procure for man the removal of desire, the cessation of the sense faculties, even the eternal mighty Nirvāna. They ensure the decay of lust, the cutting of the circle of rebirth, and the rooting out of attachment.” And with these words, he looked at his book and repeated these stanzas:

In union with the saints just once, O Sutasoma, be,

And ne’er consort with evil men and peace shall compass thee.

With holy men consorting such, as friends such only know,

From holy men true doctrine learn and daily better grow.

As painted cars of royalty wax dim and fade away,

So, too, our bodies frail wear out and suffer swift decay.

But Faith of holy men abides and never waxes old,

Good men proclaim it to the good through ages yet untold.

The sky above us stretches far, far stretches earth below,

And lands beyond the boundless sea far distant are we know.

But greater still than all of these and wider in its reach

Is doctrine whether good or bad that saints or villains preach.

In this way the brahmin taught him the four stanzas, each worth a hundred gold coins, just as Kassapa Buddha had taught them. Then he remained silent.

The Great Being was delighted at hearing them. He said, “My journey here is not without its reward.” He thought, “These verses are not merely the words of a disciple or a saint nor the work of a poet. They were spoken by the Omniscient One. I wonder what they are worth. Even though one were to give a whole world that extends to the Brahma heaven, after filling it with the seven precious things (gold, silver, pearl, coral, cat’s-eye, ruby, and diamond), one could not make an adequate return for these stanzas. Surely, I can give him reign over the city of Indapatta covering seven leagues in the realm of Kuru, which itself extends over 300 leagues. Doubtless it is his fate to be king.”

But he regarded him with the power he possessed of divining a man’s future from his personal appearance, but he found no such signs. Then he thought of him in the office of commander-in-chief and similar posts. But he did not find that he was destined even to the headship of a single village. Next, he considered the case of wealth. Starting from a crore of money (one crore is ten million rupees), he found he was destined to receive 4,000 gold coins. So thinking to honor him with just this sum, he bestowed on him four purses containing 1,000 gold coins each. Then he asked him, “Master, when you teach other princes these verses, how much do you receive?” “A hundred for each one, sire,” he said, “so they are worth just a hundred gold coins.” The Great Being said, “Master, you are ignorant of the priceless value of the goods you possess. From now on, let them be considered worth a thousand gold coins.” And so saying he repeated this stanza:

Not hundreds merely are they worth, nay thousands rather say,

So brahmin here four thousand take and, quick, with them away.

Then he presented him with a carriage and gave orders to his men. “Convey this brahmin safely to his home.” Then he dismissed him.

At this moment the loud sounds of applause were heard and cries of “Bravo, bravo! King Sutasoma has highly honored these verses. He deemed them worth a thousand gold coins when they had been valued at a hundred.” The king’s parents heard the noise and asked what it meant. When they learned the true state of things, they were angry with the Great Being. But after dismissing the brahmin, he went and saluted them. His father said, “My son, you have escaped from the hands of one described as a fierce robber.” And instead of expressing pleasure at seeing him, because of his greed he asked, “Is it true what they say, that you gave 4,000 gold coins for hearing four stanzas.” When he said it was so, his father repeated this verse:

Verses may be worth eighty pieces each,

Or e’en a hundred may in value reach,

But, Sutasoma, you yourself must own

A stanza worth a thousand is unknown.

Then the Great Being, to convince him to see things in a different light, said, “Dear father, it is not wealth I desire, but an increase in learning.” And he uttered these stanzas:

Increase in holy lore I most desire

And to the friendship of the saints aspire.

No rivers can the void of ocean fill,

So I good words imbibe, insatiate still.

As flames for wood and grass insatiate roar,

And seas are fed with streams crave more and more,

E’en so do sages, mighty lord of lords,

Insatiate listen to well-spoken words.

If from the mouth of my own slave I e’er

Should verses full of deepest import hear,

His words I would accept with honor due,

Unsated still with doctrines good and true.

After having thus spoken he said, “Do not criticize me just for the sake of money. I have come here after swearing an oath that when I had heard the Dharma, I would return. Now I will go back to this monster. Then you can accept this sovereignty.” And handing it over to him, he spoke this stanza:

This realm is yours with all its wealth of gold,

Trappings of state and joy and bliss untold.

Why blame, should I from sensual pleasures fly

And at man-eater’s hand go forth to die?

At this moment the heart of the king’s father grew hot. He said, “What, my dear Sutasoma, is this you say? I will come with a complete host of all four arms and will seize the robber.” And he repeated this stanza:

For our defense lo! Valiant soldiers come,

Some riding elephants, on chariots some,

Foot-soldiers these, these horsemen armed with bow—

Marshal our host and let us slay our foe.

Then his father and mother, their eyes swimming with tears, pleaded with him. “Do not go, my son. No, you cannot go.” 16,000 dancing girls and the rest of his court lamented. They said, “Leaving us helpless, where would you go, sire?” No one throughout the city could restrain his feelings. They said, “He has come, they tell us, after giving a promise to the man-eater. And now that he has heard four stanzas worth 100 gold coins each and has paid due honor to the preacher of the Dharma and bidden farewell to his parents, he will return once more to the robber.” The whole city was greatly stirred. And on hearing what his father and mother said, he repeated this stanza:

Wondrous this deed of our man-eating foe,

To capture me alive and let me go.

Calling to mind his friendly acts of yore

How can I violate the oath I swore?

Comforting his parents he said, “Dear father and mother, do not be anxious about me. I have performed a virtuous action, and mastery over the desires of the six senses is no hard matter.” Then he bid farewell to his parents, he admonished the rest of the people and so departed.

The Master, to make the matter clear, said:

Farewell to parents said, with counsel wise

Townsmen and soldiers he did straight advise,

Then true to promised word refused to lie

And to man-eater back again did hie.

The man-eater thought, “If my friend Sutasoma wishes to return, let him return, otherwise not, and let my tree-spirit do whatever she pleases. I will put these princes to death and make an offering of their flesh with the five sweet things (milk, sugar, ghee, curd, and honey).” So he built a funeral pile and kindled it, thinking he would wait until the coal was red hot. While he sat and sharpened his spit, Sutasoma returned. At the sight of him the man-eater was glad at heart. He asked, “My friend, have you gone and done what you wanted to do?” The Great Being said, “Yes, your majesty. I have heard the stanzas that were taught to the brahmin by the Kassapa Buddha, and I paid due honor to the preacher of the Dharma. And so I have come back, having done the thing I had to do.” To illustrate this, he repeated this stanza:

My word I once did to a brahmin plight,

What time in mine own realm I ruled with might,

And now that I have kept my promised word

And saved my honor, have returned, my lord.

So kill and offer me to your tree-sprite

With man’s flesh satisfy your appetite

On hearing this the man-eater thought, “This king has no fear. He speaks with all the terrors of death dispelled. I wonder from where comes this power. It can be nothing else. He says, ‘I have heard the verses that the Kassapa Buddha taught.’ This supernatural power must come from them. I will make him utter these verses in my presence, and so I, too, will be free from fear.” And being so resolved, he repeated this stanza:

The fire still smokes, though I somewhat delay,

I forfeit not the right to eat my prey.

Meat roast o’er embers clear is roasted well,

These strains a hundred pieces worth, come, tell.

When he heard this, the Great Being thought, “This man-eater is wicked. I will rebuke him, and with my words, I will put him to shame.” He said:

You, O man-eater, are a wicked sight,

Fall’n from your throne through carnal appetite.

These verses do proclaim the Right to me,

But how, I pray, can Right and Wrong agree?

To wicked robber, one whose hands are steeped in gore,

From where comes Truth or Right? What profits holy lore?

Even when addressed in these words the man-eater was not angry. Why was this? It was because of the mighty power of charity in the Great Being. So he said, “Am I only, friend Sutasoma, unrighteous?” And he repeated this stanza:

The man that hunts a beast to make him savory meat,

And one that slays a man, his fellow’s flesh to eat,

Both after death in guilt are counted much the same,

Then why am I alone for wickedness to blame?

On hearing this the Great Being, in refuting his heresy, repeated this stanza:

Of five-clawed things a warrior prince all witting five may eat,

Wicked are you, O king, in that you eat forbidden meat.

On receiving this rebuke, he saw no other means of escape. He tried to conceal his own wrong-doing and repeated this stanza:

Escaped from fierce man-eater did you come

Full of sweet longings to your royal home,

And then to foe entrust your life once more?

Well versed are you, indeed, in astral lore!

Then the Great Being said, “Friend, one like me must be well versed in the lore of kshatriyas. I know it well, but I do not regulate my actions accordingly.” And he spoke this stanza:

All such as are in kshatriya doctrine versed

In hell are mostly doomed to life accursed.

Therefore I have all kshatriya lore abhorred

And here returned, true to my promised word.

Make then your sacrifice and eat me up, dread lord.

The man-eater said:

Palatial halls, broad acres, steeds and kine,

Perfumes, rich robes and many a concubine,

All these as mighty lord you hold in fee—

In Truth what blessing, pray you, do you see?

The Bodhisatta said:

Of all the sweets this world can yield to me

None sweeter than the joys of Truth I see.

Brahmins and priests that in the Truth abide,

Birth, death, escaping, reach the further side.

In this way the Great Being taught him the blessing of Truth. Then the man-eater regarded his face. It was as glorious as a lotus in bloom or the full moon. He thought, “This Sutasoma sees me preparing a pile of embers and sharpening a spit. Yet he does not show an atom of fear. Can this be the magic power in these verses that are worth a hundred gold coins. or does it arise from some other truth? I will ask him.” And he repeated this stanza in the form of a question:

Escaped from fierce man-eater did you come

Full of sweet longings to your royal home,

And then once more return to meet your foe?

You, surely, prince, no fear of death can know,

To keep your promised word and worldly lusts forego.

The Great Being in answer to him said:

As mine I countless acts of virtue claim,

My bounteous offerings are known to fame,

To the next world a path I have kept clear,

Who that abides in Faith holds death in fear?

As mine I countless acts of virtue claim,

My bounteous offerings are known to fame,

With no regrets to heaven I’ll take my way,

So sacrifice and then devour your prey.

My parents have I cherished with fond care,

My rule wins praise as eminently fair,

To the next world a path I have kept clear,

Who that abides in Faith holds death in fear?

My parents have I cherished with fond care,

My rule wins praise as eminently fair,

With no regrets to heaven I’ll take my way,

So sacrifice and then devour your prey.

To friends and kin due service I have done,

My rule was just and praise from all has won,

With no regrets to heaven I’ll take my way,

So sacrifice and then devour your prey.

Gifts manifold to many I supplied,

Yea, priests and brahmins fully satisfied,

To the next world a path I have kept clear,

Who that abides in Faith holds death in fear?

Gifts manifold to many I supplied,

Yea priests and brahmins fully satisfied,

With no regrets to heaven I’ll take my way,

So sacrifice and then devour your prey.

On hearing this the man-eater thought, “This King Sutasoma is a good and wise man. Suppose I were to eat him? My skull would split into seven pieces, or the earth would open her mouth and swallow me up.” Terrified, he said, “My friend, you are not the sort of man that I should eat.” And he repeated this stanza:

He knowingly would quaff a poison cup

Or fiery snake, so fell and fierce, take up,

Yea into fragments seven his head would fly

That dares to eat a man that cannot lie.

He addressed the Great Being, saying, “You are, as it were, a deadly poison, I think. Who would eat you?” Then, anxious to hear those verses, he begged him to tell him them. But his prayer was rejected by the Great Being on the ground that he was not worthy to hear verses of such unexceptionable morality. He said, “In all India there is no sage like this. When he was released from my hand, he went and heard these verses. And after paying due honor to the preacher of the Dharma, he came back again with death written on his forehead. These verses must be of transcendent excellence.” And being even more filled with a reverent desire to hear them, he begged the Great Being in this stanza:

Hearing the Truth men soon discern between the good and ill.

Perhaps if heard these strains my heart with joy in Truth may fill.

Then the Great Being thought, “The man-eater is now eager to hear. I will reveal them to him.” He said, “Well then, my friend, listen carefully.” Now that he had his attention, he sang the praises of these verses exactly as he was taught them by the brahmin Nanda. The gods in the six worlds of sense all broke into one loud cry. The angels in heaven shouted applause, and the Great Being proclaimed the Truth to the man-eater:

In union with the saints just once, O Sutasoma, be.

Because these verses were so well delivered by the Great Being, and because he himself was wise, the man-eater thought, “These stanzas are the words of an Omniscient Buddha.” His whole body thrilled with the five kinds of joy (minor joy, momentary joy, showering joy, uplifting joy, and pervading joy). He felt a tender compassion for the Bodhisatta and regarded him in the light of a father that was ready to confer on him the white umbrella of royalty. He thought, “I see no offerings of yellow gold to give to Sutasoma. But for each stanza, I will grant him a boon.” And he spoke this verse:

Pregnant with meaning and in accents clear

Your goodly words, O prince, fall on my ear,

So glad I am at heart, that I rejoice

Four boons, good friend, I offer you for choice.

Then the Great Being reprimanded him. He said, “What boon, indeed, will you offer me?” And he repeated this stanza:

One his own mortal state that fails to learn,

Or good from evil, heaven from hell discern,

The slave of carnal appetite, how can

A wretch like you know any boon for man?

Suppose I say “Grant me this boon” and then

You should your promised word take back again,

Who that is wise would knowingly incur

So clear a risk of quarrelling, good sir?

Then the man-eater said, “He does not believe me. I will make him believe,” and he repeated this stanza:

No one should claim to grant a boon and then

His promised word, false man, take back again.

Among these boons, my friend, all fearless choose,

I’ll grant to you, though life itself I lose.

Then the Great Being thought, “He has spoken like a brave fellow. He will do what I tell him. I will accept his offer. But if I should choose as the very first boon that he should abstain from eating human flesh, he will be very sick at heart. I will first choose three other boons, and after that I will choose this.” He said:

Who with a saint lives face to face ever with saint agrees,

So, too, a sage is ever sure a brother sage to please.

Thus safe and sound a hundred years I pray to see you live,

This is the first of all the boons I please would have you give.

The man-eater, on hearing this, thought, “This man, even though I have driven him from his sovereignty, now wishes long life for me, the noted robber that lusts after human flesh and would do him a mischief. Ah! He is my well-wisher.” And he was glad at heart, not knowing that this boon had been chosen to push him to do good. In granting the boon he uttered this stanza:

Who with a saint lives face to face ever with saint agrees,

So, too, a sage is ever sure a brother sage to please.

You soon would see me safe and sound for years twice fifty live,

Lo! At your prayer this first of boons to you I gladly give.

Then the Bodhisatta said:

These warrior chiefs held captive in your hand,

By sprinkling hailed as kings in many a land,

These mighty lords of earth you must not eat,

For this as second boon I next entreat.

In choosing this second boon he saved the lives of over a hundred kshatriyas. In granting the boon the man-eater said to him:

These warrior chiefs held captive in my hand,

By sprinkling hailed as kings in many a land,

These mighty lords, I’ll not eat them, I swear,

This second boon, too, I grant to your prayer.

Well, did these kings hear what they were talking about? They did not hear it all. For when the man-eater lit a fire, for fear of any injury to the tree from the smoke and flame, he stepped back from it. The Great Being talked with him, seated in the interval between the fire and the tree. Consequently these kings did not hear what they said. They heard it only partially. They comforted one another, saying, “Fear not. Now Sutasoma will convert the man-eater.”

At this moment the Great Being spoke this stanza:

You hold captive a hundred kings and more,

All strung up by their hands and weeping sore,

Restore then each to his own realm again,

This the third boon I would from you obtain.

In this way the Great Being made his third choice, choosing the restoration of these kshatriyas, each to his own kingdom. Why was this? Because the ogre, supposing he did not eat them, through fear of their hostility would either enslave them all and make them live in the forest. Or he would kill them and expose their dead bodies, or he would bring them to the border country and sell them as slaves. Therefore, he chose as his boon their restoration to their own kingdoms

The man-eater in granting his request spoke this stanza:

I hold captive a hundred kings and more,

All strung up by their hands and weeping sore,

All will I to their realms restore again,

This third boon, too, you shall from me obtain.

Now, in making his fourth choice, the Bodhisatta spoke this stanza:

Distracted is your realm and sick with fright,

In caves many people hide from your sight.

From eating human flesh, O king, abstain,

This—the fourth boon—I would from you obtain.

When he had spoken, the man-eater clapped his hands and laughing, he said, “Friend Sutasoma, what in truth is this that you say? How can I grant you this boon? If you are anxious to receive another boon, choose something else.” And he uttered this stanza:

Quite to my taste I surely find this food,

‘Twas for this cause I hid within the wood.

How then from such delights should I abstain?

For your fourth boon, good sir, pray, choose again.

Then the Great Being said, “Because you love man’s flesh, you say, ‘I cannot abstain from it.’ Whoever does evil because it is pleasant is a fool.” And he repeated this stanza:

A king like you should not his pleasure take

Nor sacrifice his life for pleasure’s sake.

Life in its highest sense, best gift, attain

And future joys you shall by merit gain.

When these words had been spoken by the Great Being, the man-eater was overcome with fear. He thought, “I can neither repudiate the choice Sutasoma has made nor abstain from human flesh. What in the world am I to do?” With his eyes swimming in tears, he repeated this stanza:

I love man’s flesh, you, too, must know,

Great Sutasoma, it is so.

From it I never can abstain,

Think, sir, of something else and choose again.

Then the Bodhisatta said:

Whosoever shall his own pleasure take

And sacrifice e’en life for pleasure’s sake,

The poison cup like drunkard will he drain,

And so hereafter suffers endless pain.

Who knowingly shall pleasure here eschew,

The arduous path of duty to pursue,

As one in pain that drains the healing cup,

So he to bliss in the next world wakes up.

After he had spoken, the man-eater sorely lamented, repeating this stanza:

The five-fold joys that from our senses spring

And parents dear and all abandoning,

For this cause I came in this wood to live,

How then can I the boon you ask to give?

Then the Great Being spoke this stanza:

Sages in speech duplicity ne’er show,

True to their promise are good men, we know.

“Choose, friend, some boon” is what you said to me,

What now you say with this will scarce agree.

Once more, still weeping, the man-eater spoke this stanza:

Demerit with disgrace and shame combined,

Misconduct, lust and wrong of every kind,

All this, to eat man’s flesh, I did incur,

Why then should I this boon on you confer?

Then the Great Being said:

No one should claim to grant a boon and then

His promised word, false man, take back again.

Among these boons, my friend, all fearless choose,

I’ll grant it you, though life itself I lose.

When he had pointed out the stanza uttered in the first instance by the man-eater, to inspire him with courage to grant the boon, he spoke this stanza:

Good men will life give up, but never right,

True to their word e’en in their own despite.

If you should promise, best of kings, a boon,

Perfect your work and see it done right soon.

One who to save a limb rich treasure gave

Would sacrifice a limb, his life to save,

Yea, wealth, limbs, life and all away would fling,

Right and its claims alone remembering.

In this way the Great Being established the man-eater in the Dharma. And now, to make clear to him his own title to respect, he spoke this stanza:

One from whose lips a man the Truth may prove,

—Yea all good men that will his doubts remove

—A refuge sure is he, a rest, a stay,

The wise man’s love for him should ne’er decay.

After repeating these verses he said, “My man-eating friend, it is not right that you should violate the words of so excellent a master. I, too, when you were young, acted as your private teacher and gave you instruction. And now with all the charm of a Buddha, I have repeated stanzas to you worth a hundred gold coins each. Therefore, you should obey my words.”

When he heard this, the man-eater thought, “Sutasoma was my teacher and a learned man, and I granted him the choice of a boon. What am I to do? Death is a certainty in the case of an individual existence. I will not eat human flesh but will grant him the boon he asks.” And with tears streaming from his eyes, he rose up and fell at King Sutasoma’s feet. In granting the boon he repeated this stanza:

Sweet to my taste and pleasant is this food,

‘Twas for this cause I hid within the wood.

But if you ask me to do this thing,

This boon I’ll grant to you, my friend and king.

Then the Great Being said, “So be it, friend. To one firmly grounded in moral practice, even death is a boon. I accept, sire, the boon you have offered me. From this very day, you are established in the path of a spiritual guide. This being so, I beg this favor of you. If you have any love for me, accept, sir, the five moral laws.” “Very good,” he answered, “Teach me, friend, these moral laws.” “Learn then from me, sire.”

So he saluted the Great Being with the Five Precepts and took a seat apart. The Great Being established him in the moral law. At that moment the deities that live on the earth gathered and said, “There is no one else from the inhabitants of the Avīci hell to those of the highest of the Formless Worlds who could make this man-eater abstain from eating human flesh by inspiring affection for the Great Being. Oh! Sutasoma has created a miracle.” They applauded, making the jungle re-echo with their loud cries. And hearing the tumult, the Four Great Kings did likewise. There was one universal roar reaching even to the Brahma world.

The kings suspended on the tree heard this noise of applauding spirits. The tree nymph—still standing in her home—uttered a sound of applause. The cry of the deva spirits was heard, even though their form was invisible. When the kings heard the loud applause of the spirits, they thought, “Sutasoma has saved our lives. Sutasoma has created a miracle in converting the man-eater.” They offered up their praises to the Bodhisatta.

The man-eater—after bowing down to the feet of the Great Being—stood apart. Then the Great Being said to him, “Friend, release these warrior princes.” He thought, “I am their enemy. If they are released by me, they will say, ‘Seize him. He is our enemy.’ They will harm me. But even if I lose my life, I cannot violate the moral law that I have accepted at the hands of Sutasoma. I will go with him and release them, and in this way, I will find safety.” He bowed to the Bodhisatta and said, “Sutasoma, we will go together and release the warrior princes.” Then he repeated this stanza:

My teacher and my friend you are in one,

Behold, good sir, your bidding I have done.

Do you in turn what I have bidden thee

And straight we’ll go and set these princes free.

Then the Bodhisatta said to him:

Your teacher and your friend I am in one,

And you in truth my bidding, sir, have done.

I, too, will do what you have bidden me

And straight we’ll go and set these princes free.

And drawing near to them he said

Strung up upon this tree your tears fast flow

Because of ogre that has wronged you so,

Still we would now from you a promise wring

Never to lay a finger on this king.

Then they replied:

Strung up upon this tree and weeping sore

This ogre that has wronged us we abhor,

Yet we will all a solemn promise give

To harm him not, if only we may live.

Then the Bodhisatta said, “Give me this promise.” And he repeated this stanza:

Just as fond parents to their children may

A merciful and tender love display,

E’en such a father may he ever prove

And may you him as children dearly love.

They agreed to this, too, repeating this stanza:

Just as fond parents to their children may

A merciful and tender love display,

E’en such a father may he ever prove

And may we him as children dearly love.

In this way the Great Being exacted a promise from them. He summoned the man-eater and said, “Come and release these princes.” The man-eater took his sword and severed the bonds of one of the kings. And because this king had been fasting for seven days and was maddened with pain, no sooner was he released from his bonds than he fell on the ground. The Great Being saw this and was moved with compassion. He said, “My man-eating friend, do not cut them down like this.” He took hold of a king firmly with both hands. He clasped him to his breast and said, “Now cut his bonds.” So the man-eater severed them with his sword, and the Great Being, endowed as he was with great strength, placed him on his breast. He let him down tenderly as though it were his own son and laid him flat upon the ground. In the same way he laid them all on the ground

After bathing their wounds, he gently pulled the cords from their hands, just as it were a string from a child’s ear. He washed off the clotted blood, rendering the wounds harmless. He said to the man-eater, “My friend, pound some bark from the tree on a stone and bring it to me.” And when he had gotten it, he performed an Act of Truth. He rubbed the palms of their hands, and at that very moment their wounds were healed.

The man-eater took some husked rice and cooked it as a medicine. He gave it to the hundred and odd warrior princes to drink. All of them were satisfied as the sun set.

On the next day at dawn and at noon and in the evening, they gave them rice water to drink. But on the third day, they gave them gruel with boiled rice. They continued to so this until they began recovering. Then the Great Being asked them if they were strong enough to go home. They answered that they were equal to the journey. He said, “Come, my man-eating friend, let us go to our own kingdom.”

But weeping, he fell at the Great Being’s feet and cried, “You, my friend, take these kings and depart. But I will continue to live here on roots and wild berries.” “What would you do here, my friend? Your kingdom is a delightful one. Go and reign at Benares.” “Friend, what is this you say? It is out of the question for me to go there. All the inhabitants of that city are my enemies. They will revile me and say, ‘This fellow ate my mother or my father, seize this criminal,’ and with a clod of earth they will deprive me of life. But if I am firmly established in the moral law by you, I could not kill anyone else, not even to save my life. I will not go. Because I am abstaining from eating human flesh, how long shall I live? And now I shall no longer set eyes on you.” He wept, saying, “You go.”

The Great Being stroked him on the back and said, “My friend, my name is Sutasoma. I have now tamed just such a cruel wretch as yourself. If you ask what story you are to tell in Benares, I will establish you there. Or, dividing my own kingdom, I will hand over half of it to you.”

“In your city, too, I have enemies,” he said. Sutasoma thought, “In obeying my word, this man has achieved a difficult task. By some means or other I must establish him in his former state of glory.” To tempt him, he sang the praises of the great glory of his city and said:

Of beasts and birds of every kind the flesh you once did share,

By skillful cooks prepared was it, in sooth a dainty fare,

Yielding such joy as Indra felt, to taste ambrosial food

Why leave it all, to take delight alone within this wood?

These noble dames with slender waists, magnificently dressed,

That round about you formerly, a thronging bevy, pressed,

While you, like Indra midst his gods, didst step in happy mood—

Why leave them thus, to take delight alone within this wood?

In midst of ample couch, O king, you once at ease did lie,

With many a woollen coverlet around you piled on high,

And pillow red beneath your head and bedding clean and white—

Why leave it thus, within this wood alone to take delight

There you ofttimes at dead of night the beat of drum would hear,

And sounds surpassing human strains would strike upon the ear,

Music and song in unison, inspiring cheerful mood—

Why leave it all, to take delight alone within this wood?

You had a charming park wherein flowers in abundance grew,

Migācira, so known to fame, as park and city too,

There horses, elephants, and cars innumerable stood—

Why leave them all, to take delight alone within this wood?

The Great Being thought, “Happily this man, calling to mind the flavor of dainties he enjoyed long ago, will be eager to come with me.” So he tempted him first with food. Next, he appealed to his passions. Third by the thought of a bed, fourth by song, dancing and music, fifth by remembrance of a park and a city. With all these thoughts he tempted him, saying, “Come, sire, I will go with you to Benares and firmly establish you there, and afterwards I will return to my own kingdom. But if we fail in securing the kingdom of Benares, I will grant you half of my realm. What have you to do with a forest life? You should do what I tell you.”

After hearing his words, the man-eater agreed to go with him. He thought, “Sutasoma is anxious for my well-being. He is a merciful man. He first established me in virtue and now says that he will restore me to my former glory. I think he will be able to do so. I should go with him. What have I to do with a forest?” And being glad at heart and because of his merit, he was eager to sing Sutasoma’s praises. He said, “Friend Sutasoma, there is nothing better than consorting with a virtuous friend, nothing worse than consorting with a wicked one.” And he repeated these verses:

As in the dark half of the month the moon wanes day by day,

So friendship with the bad, O king, will suffer like decay.

Thus I consorting with that cook, the lowest of the low,

Wrought evil deeds, for which in time to hell I’m doomed to go.

As in the mouth’s clear half the moon it waxes day by day,

So friendship with the good, O king, will suffer no decay.

Thus with you, Sutasoma, I, consorting, you must know,

Shall after working righteousness to heaven all blissful go.

As copious floods when shed upon dry ground

Are ever fleeting, transitory found,

E’en so is union of bad men, O king,

Like water on dry land, a fleeting thing.

But copious floods when shed upon the sea

Enduring long are ever found to be,

E’en such is union of good men, O king,

Like water in the sea, a lasting thing.

No transient thing is union of the good,

As long as life endures such brotherhood,

But union of the bad soon falls away,

From virtue’s course bad men go far astray.

In this way the man-eater sang the praises of the Great Being in seven stanzas.

He took the man-eater and those kings and went to a frontier village. When the inhabitants saw the Great Being go to the city, they reported it. The king’s ministers arrived with an army and escorted the Great Being, and with this escort he went to the kingdom of Benares. On his way there, the country people brought presents and followed in his train. A great company reached Benares with him.

At that time the man-eater’s son was the king. Kāḷahatthi was still commander-in-chief. The people of the city reported this to the king, saying, “Sutasoma, they tell us, sire, has tamed the man-eater and has come here with him. But we will not allow him to enter the city.” They hastily closed the city gates and stood by with arms in their hands.

When he discovered that the gate was closed, the Great Being left the man-eater and the hundred and odd kings. He went on with a few of his counsellors. He cried, “I am King Sutasoma. Open the gate!” The officers went and told the king. He ordered them to open the gate with all speed, and the Great Being entered the city.

The king and Kāḷahatthi came out to meet him. They took him with them to the tower of the palace. The Great Being sat on the royal throne. He summoned the man-eater’s chief consort and the rest of his counsellors. He addressed Kāḷahatthi: “Why, Kāḷahatthi, do you refuse the king to enter the city?” He answered, “The wicked wretch that he was, while he was ruling as king in this city, devoured many men. He did that which is not lawful for kshatriyas to do. He wreaked havoc over all India. That is the reason why we act in this way.”

“Do not presume,” he answered, “that he will act in that way now. I have converted him and established him in the moral law. He would not harm anyone, not even to save his life. You are in no danger from him. Do not treat him in this manner. Truly children should watch over their parents. Those who cherish their father and mother go to heaven, the others go to hell.” In this way he admonished the king’s son, as he sat by him on a low seat.

He instructed the commander-in-chief and said, “Kāḷahatthi, you are a friend and follower of the king. You were established by him in great power. You, too, should act in the king’s interests.”

He admonished the queen, saying, “You, O queen, came from a noble stock. From his hand you acquired the position of chief consort. You were blessed with many sons and daughters by him. You, too, should act in his interests.” And to bring this matter to a head, in teaching the Dharma he said:

No king should conquer one who so inviolate should be,

No friend should get the better of a friend by treachery.

She of her lord that stands in fear is no true wife, I hold,

Nor children they that nourish not a father when he’s old.

No council-hall is that wherein the wise do not appear,

Nor wise are they that do not preach the Truth both far and near.

The wise are they that lust and hate and error lay aside,

And never fail to preach the Truth to mortals far and wide.

The sage midst fools if silent none at once discern as wise,

He speaks and all a Teacher of Nirvāna recognize.

Preach, glorify the Truth, and lift the sages’ flag on high,

Emblem of saints is goodly speech, Truth is the flag they fly.

When they heard this exposition of the Truth, the king and the commander-in-chief were highly pleased. They said, “Let us go and bring the great king here.” They made a proclamation in the city by beat of the drum. They called together the inhabitants and said, “Do not be afraid. The king, they tell us, is established in righteousness. Let us bring him here.”

So with a great multitude and with the Great Being at their head, they went and saluted the king. They provided barbers, and when his hair and beard had been shorn and he had taken a bath and put on fine clothes, they placed him on a pile of precious stones. They sprinkled him and then conducted him into the city.

The man-eating king paid great honor to the hundred and more kshatriyas and the Great Being. There was great excitement throughout all India at the news that Sutasoma, lord of men, had converted the man-eater and re-established him on the throne. The inhabitants of the city Indapatta sent a message bidding the kings to return. The Great Being stayed there just a month. He instructed the king, saying, “Friend, we will be going. See that you are zealous in good works. Have five alms-halls erected at the city gates and at your palace door. Observe the ten royal virtues and guard against evil courses.”

(The ten royal virtues are generosity, morality, renunciation, honesty, gentleness, asceticism, non-violence, patience, and uprightness.)

From a hundred and more royal cities a numerous army assembled. With this escort he went forth from Benares. The man-eater, too, went forth with him, halting midway on the road. The Great Being presented horses to ride to those who did not have them, and then he dismissed them all. They exchanged friendly greetings with him, and then—after fitting salutations and embraces—they returned, each to his own people.

When the Great Being reached Indapatta, he entered the city with great majesty. Its inhabitants had decorated the city like it was the home of the gods. He paid respects to his parents, and expressing his pleasure at seeing them, he ascended the palace tower.

While exercising just rule in his kingdom the thought occurred to him, “The tree-spirit was very helpful to me. I will see that she receives a holy offering.” So he had a vast lake constructed near the banyan tree. He transported many families there and founded a village. It grew into a big place supplied with 80,000 shops. And starting from the farthest limits of its branches, he levelled the ground around the roots of the tree. He surrounded it with an ornamental railing furnished with arches and gates, and the spirit of the tree was honored. Because the village was settled on the spot where the ogre was converted, the place grew into the town of Kammāsadamma. And all the kings, abiding in the admonition of the Great Being, performed good works such as almsgiving and the like, and thereby attained to heaven.