Sutta Nipata

Defilements ended, conceit given up, beyond all manner of desire; tamed, quenched, and steadfast, they’d rightly wander the world.

Faithful, learned, seer of the sure path, an attentive one joins no faction among sects; rid of greed, hate, and aversion, they’d rightly wander the world.

A purified victor with veil cast off, among worldly things master, transcendent, stilled; expert in knowledge of conditions’ cessation, they’d rightly wander the world.

They’re over speculating on the future or past, and understand what it means to be pure; freed from all the sense fields, they’d rightly wander the world.

The state of peace is understood, <j>the truth is comprehended, they’ve openly seen defilements cast off; and with the ending of all attachments, they’d rightly wander the world.”

“Clearly, Blessed One, it is just as you say. One who lives like this is a tamed mendicant, passed beyond all fetters and yokes: they’d rightly wander the world.”

So I have heard. At one time the Buddha was staying near Sāvatthī in Jeta’s Grove, Anāthapiṇḍika’s monastery. Then the lay follower Dhammika, together with five hundred lay followers, went up to the Buddha, bowed, sat down to one side, and addressed him in verse:

“I ask you, Gotama, whose wisdom is vast: what does one do to become a good disciple, both one who has left the home, and the lay followers staying at home?

For you understand the course and destiny of the world with all its gods. There is no equal to you who sees the subtle meaning, for you are the Buddha most excellent, they say.

Having experienced all knowledge, you reveal the teaching out of sympathy for beings. All-seer, you have cast off the veil, and immaculate, you dazzle the whole world.

The dragon king Erāvaṇa, <j>hearing you called ‘Victor’, came into your presence. He consulted with you then, <j>having heard your words, left consoled, saying ‘Excellent!’

And King Kuvera Vessavaṇa also approached to ask about the teaching. You also answered him, O attentive one, and hearing you he too was consoled.

Those monastics of other religions given to debate, whether Ājīvakas or Jains, all fail to overtake you in wisdom, like a standing man next to a sprinter.

Those brahmins given to debate, some of whom are quite senior, all end up beholden to you for the meaning, and others too who think themselves debaters.

So subtle and pleasant is the teaching that is well proclaimed by you, Blessed One. It’s all we long to hear. So when asked, O Best of Buddhas, tell us!

All these mendicants have gathered, and the layfolk too are here to listen. Let them hear the teaching <j>the immaculate one discovered, like gods listening to the fine words of Vāsava.”

“Listen to me, mendicants, I will educate you in the cleansing teaching; all bear it in mind. A thoughtful person, seeing the meaning, would adopt the deportment <j>proper to a renunciate.

No way would a mendicant go out at the wrong time; at the right time, they’d walk the village for alms. For chains bind one who wanders at the wrong time, which is why the Buddhas avoid it.

Sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and touches, which drive beings mad— dispel desire for such things, and enter for the morning meal at the right time.

After receiving alms for the day, on returning a mendicant would sit in private alone. Inwardly reflective, they’d curb their mind from outside things, keeping themselves collected.

Should they converse with a disciple, with anyone else, or with a mendicant, they’d bring up only the sublime teaching, not dividing or blaming.

For some contend in debate, but we praise not those of little wisdom. In place after place they are bound in chains, for they send their mind over there far away.

Alms, a dwelling, a bed and seat, and water for rinsing the dust from the cloak— after hearing the teaching of the Holy One, a disciple of outstanding wisdom <j>would use these after appraisal.

That’s why, when it comes to alms and lodgings, and water for rinsing the dust from the cloak, a mendicant is unsullied in the midst of these things, like a droplet on a lotus-leaf.

Now I shall tell you the householder’s duty, doing which one becomes a good disciple. For one burdened with possessions <j>does not get to realize the whole of the mendicant’s practice.

They’d not kill any creature, nor have them killed, nor grant permission for others to kill. They’ve laid aside violence toward all creatures frail or firm that there are in the world.

Next, a disciple would avoid knowingly taking anything not given at all, they’d not get others to do it, <j>nor grant them permission to steal; they’d avoid <em>all</em> theft.

A sensible person would avoid the unchaste life, like a burning pit of coals. But if unable to remain chaste, they’d not transgress with another’s partner.

In a council or assembly, or one on one, they would not lie. They’d not get others to lie, <j>nor grant them permission to lie; they’d avoid <em>all</em> untruths.

A householder espousing this teaching would not consume liquor or drink. They’d not get others to drink, <j>nor grant them permission to drink; knowing that ends in intoxication.

For drunken fools do bad things, and encourage other heedless folk. Shun this field of demerit, the maddening, deluding frolic of fools.

You shouldn’t kill living creatures, or steal, or lie, or drink liquor. Be chaste, refraining from sex, and don’t eat at night, the wrong time.

Not wearing garlands or applying fragrance, you should sleep on a low bed, <j>or a mat on the ground. This is the eight-factored sabbath, they say, revealed by the Buddha, <j>who has gone to suffering’s end.

Then having rightly undertaken the sabbath complete in all its eight factors on the fourteenth, fifteenth, <j>and eighth of the fortnight, as well as on the fortnightly special displays,

at daybreak after the sabbath a clever person, rejoicing with confident heart, would distribute food and drink to the mendicant Saṅgha as is fitting.

One should rightfully support one’s parents, and undertake a legitimate business. A diligent layperson observing these duties ascends to the gods named ‘self-radiant’.”

“I shall extol going forth with the example of the Clear-eyed One, the course of inquiry that led to his choice to go forth.

‘This life at home is cramped, a realm of dirt.’ ‘The life of one gone forth is like an open space.’ Seeing this, he went forth.

Having gone forth, he shunned bad deeds of body. And leaving verbal misconduct behind, he purified his livelihood.

The Buddha went to Rājagaha, the Mountainfold of the Magadhans. He betook himself for alms, replete with excellent marks.

Bimbisāra saw him while standing atop his longhouse. Noticing that he was endowed with marks, he said the following:

‘Pay heed, sirs, to this one, handsome, majestic, radiant; accomplished in deportment, he looks just a plough’s length in front.

Eyes downcast, mindful, unlike one from a low family. Let the king’s messengers run out, and find where the mendicant will go.’

The messengers sent out followed right behind, thinking ‘Where will the mendicant go? Where shall he find a place to stay?’

Wandering indiscriminately for alms, sense doors guarded and well restrained, aware and mindful, his bowl was quickly filled.

Having wandered for alms, the sage left the city. He betook himself to Mount Paṇḍava, thinking, ‘Here is the place I shall stay.’

Seeing that he had arrived at a place to stay, the messengers withdrew nearby, but one of them returned to inform the king.

‘Great king, the mendicant is on the east flank of Mount Paṇḍava. There he sits, like a tiger or a bull, like a lion in a mountain cave.’

Hearing the messenger’s report, the aristocrat set out hurriedly in his fine chariot toward Mount Paṇḍava.

He went as far as vehicles could go, then dismounted from his chariot, approached on foot, and reaching him, drew near.

Seated, the king greeted him and made polite conversation. When the courtesies were over, he said the following:

‘You are young, just a youth, a lad in the prime of life. You are endowed with beauty and stature, like an aristocrat of good birth

in glory at the army’s head, surrounded by a troop of elephants. I offer you pleasures—enjoy them! But please tell me of your birth.’

‘Up north, O King, on the slopes of the Himalayas, full of wealth and strength, lies the land of one whose abode is among the Kosalans.

Their clan is named for the Sun, they are Sakyans by birth. I have gone forth from that family— I do not yearn for sensual pleasure.

Seeing the danger in sensual pleasures, seeing renunciation as sanctuary, I shall go on to strive; that is where my mind delights.’”

“During my time of resolute striving back on the bank of the Nerañjara River, I was meditating very hard for the sake of sanctuary from the yoke.

Namucī approached, speaking words of kindness: ‘You’re thin, discolored, on the verge of death.

Death has a thousand parts of you, one fraction is left to life. Live, worthy sir! Life is better! Living, you can make merits.

While leading the spiritual life and serving the sacred flame, you can pile up abundant merit— so what will striving do for you?

Hard to walk is the path of striving, hard to do, a hard challenge to win.’” These are the verses Māra spoke as he stood beside the Buddha.

When Māra had spoken in this way, the Buddha said this: “O Wicked One, kinsman of the negligent, you’re here for your own purpose.

I have no need for the slightest bit of merit. Those with need for merit are fit for Māra to address.

I have faith and energy too, and wisdom is found in me. When I am so resolute, why do you beg me to live?

The rivers and streams might be dried by the wind, so why, when I am resolute, should it not dry up my blood?

And while the blood is drying up, the bile and phlegm dry too. And as my muscles waste away, my mind grows more serene. And all the stronger grow mindfulness and wisdom and immersion.

As I meditate like this, having attained the supreme feeling, my mind has no interest in sensual pleasures: behold a being’s purity!

Sensual pleasures are your first army, the second is called discontent, hunger and thirst are the third, and the fourth is said to be craving.

Your fifth is dullness and drowsiness, the sixth is said to be cowardice, your seventh is doubt, contempt and obstinacy are your eighth.

Profit, praise, and honor, and misbegotten fame; the extolling of oneself while scorning others.

This is your army, Namucī, the strike force of the Dark One. Only a hero can defeat it, but in victory there lies bliss.

Let me gird myself— curse my life! I’d rather die in battle than live on in defeat.

Here some ascetics and brahmins are swallowed up, not to be seen again. And they do not know the path traveled by those true to their vows.

Seeing Māra ready with his legions, surrounded by his bannered forces, I shall meet them in battle— they’ll never make me retreat!

That army of yours has never been beaten by the world with all its gods. Yet I shall smash it with wisdom, like an unfired pot with a stone.

Having brought my thoughts under control, and established mindfulness well, I shall wander from nation to nation, guiding many disciples.

Diligent and resolute, following my instructions, they will proceed despite your will, to where there is no sorrow.”

“For seven years I followed step by step behind the Blessed One. I found no vulnerability in the mindful Awakened One.

A crow once circled a stone that looked like a lump of fat. ‘Perhaps I’ll find something tender,’ it thought, ‘perhaps there’s something tasty.’

But finding nothing tasty, the crow left that place. Like the crow that pecked the stone, I leave Gotama disappointed.”

So stricken with sorrow that his harp dropped from his armpit, that spirit, downcast, vanished right there.

So I have heard. At one time the Buddha was staying near Sāvatthī in Jeta’s Grove, Anāthapiṇḍika’s monastery. There the Buddha addressed the mendicants, “Mendicants!” “Venerable sir,” they replied. The Buddha said this:

“Mendicants, speech that has four factors is well spoken, not poorly spoken. It’s blameless and is not criticized by sensible people. What four? It’s when a mendicant speaks well, not poorly; their speech is principled, not unprincipled; they speak pleasantly, not unpleasantly; and they speak truthfully, not falsely. Speech with these four factors is well spoken, not poorly spoken. It’s blameless and is not criticized by sensible people.” That is what the Buddha said. Then the Holy One, the Teacher, went on to say:

“Good people say well-spoken words are foremost; second, speech ought be principled, not unprincipled; third, speak pleasantly, not unpleasantly; and fourth, speak truthfully, not falsely.”

Then Venerable Vaṅgīsa rose from his seat, arranged his robe over one shoulder, raised his cupped palms toward the Buddha, and said, “I feel inspired to speak, Blessed One! I feel inspired to speak, Holy One!” “Then speak as you feel inspired,” said the Buddha. Then Vaṅgīsa extolled the Buddha in his presence with fitting verses:

“Speak only those words that do not hurt yourself nor harm others; such speech is truly well spoken.

Speak only pleasing words, words gladly welcomed. Pleasing words are those that bring nothing bad to others.

Truth itself is undying speech: this is an ancient teaching. Good people say the teaching and meaning are grounded in truth.

The words spoken by the Buddha for finding the sanctuary, extinguishment, for making an end of suffering, this really is the best kind of speech.”

So I have heard. At one time the Buddha was staying in the Kosalan lands on the bank of the Sundarikā River. Now at that time the brahmin Bhāradvāja of Sundarikā was serving the sacred flame and performing the fire sacrifice on the bank of the Sundarikā. Then he rose from his seat and surveyed the four quarters, wondering, “Now who might eat the leftovers of this oblation?” He saw the Buddha meditating at the root of a certain tree with his robe pulled over his head. Taking the leftovers of the oblation in his left hand and a pitcher in the right he approached the Buddha.

When he heard Bhāradvāja of Sundarikā’s footsteps the Buddha uncovered his head. Bhāradvāja of Sundarikā thought, “This man is shaven, he is shaven!” And he wanted to turn back. But he thought, “Even some brahmins are shaven. Why don’t I go to him and ask about his birth?” Then the brahmin Bhāradvāja of Sundarikā went up to the Buddha, and said to him, “Sir, what are you by birth?”

Then the Buddha addressed Bhāradvāja of Sundarikā in verse:

“I am no brahmin, nor am I a ruler, nor peasant nor anything else. Fully understanding the clan of ordinary people, I wander in the world owning nothing, reflective.

Clad in my cloak, I wander without home, my hair shorn, quenched. Since I’m unburdened by sons of Manu, it’s inappropriate to ask me about clan.”

“Actually sir, when brahmins meet they politely ask each other whether they are brahmins.”

“Well, if you say that you’re a brahmin, and that I am not, I shall question you on that Sāvitrī Prayer, with its three lines and twenty-four syllables.”

“On what grounds have seers and men, aristocrats and brahmins here in the world performed so many different sacrifices to the gods?”

“During a sacrifice, should a past-master, <j>a knowledge master, receive an oblation, it profits the donor, I say.”

“Then clearly my oblation will be profitable,” said the brahmin, “since I have met such a knowledge master. It’s because I’d never met anyone like you that others ate the sacrificial cake.”

“So then, brahmin, since you have approached me as a seeker of the good, ask. Perhaps you may find here someone intelligent, peaceful, unclouded, untroubled, <j>with no need for hope.”