續高僧傳 27
English (machine translation) 27
- Language
- English
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Compiled by the śramaṇa Shi Daoxuan of Ximing Monastery in the Great Tang
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Chapter 7: Abandonment of the Body; twelve primary biographies, two appended
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1. Biography of the śramaṇa Shi Fanian of Huizhou Monastery in the Shu region under the Southern Qi
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2. Biography of the śramaṇa Shi Sengya of the Yi region under the Zhou
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3. Biography of the reclusive śramaṇa Shi Puyuan of Yongzhou under the Zhou
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4. Biography of the śramaṇa Shi Puji of Zhongnan Mountain under the Sui (also another Puji)
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5. Biography of the reclusive monk Shi Pu'an of the southern suburbs of the capital under the Sui
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6. Biography of the śramaṇa Shi Dazhi of Mount Lu in Jiujiang under the Sui
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7. Biography of the śramaṇa Shi Zhiming of the puppet Zheng under the Tang
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8. Biography of Shi Xuanlan of Hongfu Monastery in the capital under the Tang
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9. Biography of Shi Fakuang of Hongshan Monastery in the capital under the Tang
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10. Biography of the śramaṇa Shi Huitong of Baolin Valley in the Zhongnan Mountains under the Tang
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11. Biography of Ācārya Shao, śramaṇa of Zizhou under the Tang
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12. Biography of Shi Daoxiu of Fuyuan Monastery in Xinfeng, Yongzhou, under the Tang
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Shi Fanian was a native of Huizhou. His secular surname was Pang. Formerly, Emperor Wu of the Qi dreamed of roaming Mount Qi, but did not know in which province or county it lay; he dispatched inquiries across the empire to seek it. At that time, elders of Huizhou submitted a memorial stating that seven li north of the provincial city lay Chenren Mountain, which was formerly called Mount Qi. Emperor Wu sent orders to establish a vihāra upon it, ordain monks, and grant fields and estates. Fanian was ordained first while still a boy. Concentrating his mind on observing the precepts, his virtue and practice grew daily renewed. On the six fast days of every month and during the three fast months, he provided offerings without interruption. He took only dhyāna sitting as his constant concern; emerging from dhyāna, he would recite the scriptures. He constantly entered dhyāna; the common people vied to go and see him, but dared not enter, viewing him only from afar through the window. Frequently a whole month would pass, and upon emerging he still would not eat. Many eminent monks and bhadantas went to urge him, and though he took food again, it was gradually less and less. Later, when he reached the age of seventy, he set up a seat before a Buddha image and sat down. At first he burned a single finger, remaining motionless day and night. The fire spread to his arm. Various people and disciples wished to rush in to put it out, some crying out, while others restrained them and forbade it. As the arm burned, the flames grew ever fiercer and finally reached his body. For seven days and seven nights, men and women among the local populace wailed and beat their breasts, while others prostrated and sang praises. When his body was consumed, only a single mound of ash remained. The assembly buried it together and erected a stupa over it. Today only a single vihāra remains; all the rest has fallen into ruin.
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Shi Sengya was of the Mu surname. His ancestors lived in Fuling. In the ninth year of the Yixi reign-period of the Jin dynasty, when Zhu Lingshi campaigned against Shu, three hundred households of the Rang people from Fuling followed the army in subduing and pacifying it, subsequently settling in the valleys of Jinyuan Mountain in Guanghan. Sengya was their descendant. In his childhood he spoke little and did not engage in playful games. Whenever he visited mountain springs, he would invariably bow first before drinking. Sometimes he would gaze fixedly without blinking, remaining seated all day. When people asked the reason, he replied: 'This body is loathsome; I am merely contemplating it. Later I will surely burn it.' When he grew older, he entered military service, being resolute and upright. Once, when fishing with companions, he would cast his share into the water, telling his companions: 'Killing is not a good karma. Now sores have broken out all over my body; I vow to cease hunting.' He then burned his hunting gear. At that time, several hundred Rang chieftains jointly built a pond with a dam to raise fish. Sengya led his household servants there to watch. Suddenly there was a strange snake, about a foot long, with its head and tail entirely crimson. In a moment it grew to over a zhang in length and five to six chi in circumference. The Rang crowd fled in disorder. The snake then headed toward the water, lifted its tail into the clouds, and crimson light spread across the countryside; only after a long time did it disappear. Shortly thereafter, the crowd gathered and discussed what had happened. Sengya said: 'There is no need to worry about this. Just cease the karma of killing, and the snake will not harm people.' He also urged them to stop damming the pond, but the crowd did not agree. Shortly after, the embankments burst and collapsed. At that time he relied upon Dhyāna Master Xi, offering his labor in service. Although he performed menial chores, his speech was halting and his actions seemed dull-witted. Yet in one-on-one dialogue, his words constantly accorded with the great principles. After several years with him, nothing unusual was seen. In the depths of winter, the dhyāna master suffered from cold feet and ordered him to fetch fire. He brought a large brazier of glowing coals and placed it directly before him. The dhyāna master reproached him: 'You foolish man, why trouble me with so much fire?' Sengya replied with a solemn countenance: 'You needed fire to repel the cold, but having received fire, you complain of the heat. Who then is the foolish man? With a disposition such as this, how can one attain the Way?' The dhyāna master said to him: 'If you are not afraid of heat, try placing your hand in the fire.' Sengya immediately placed his fingers in the fire in response to his words. They crackled with sound, and smoke suddenly billowed forth, yet his expression did not change in the least. The dhyāna master inwardly deemed it extraordinary, but did not immediately pay him reverence. On another day, the disciples said, 'Sengya can withstand fire,' and together pushed him into a brazier. The burned places all formed sores, yet he smiled joyfully and with ease, without the slightest expression of pain. The disciples reported everything to the dhyāna master. The dhyāna master called him over and said: 'If you study the Buddhadharma here, do not engage in reckless actions again or agitate the common people.' Sengya replied: 'If one does not mortify the body, how can one attain the Way? If I can go forth into the monastic life (pravrajyā), even a single day would be enough.' The dhyāna master then ordained him and personally shaved his head. He only felt that his temple-hair and beard were as easy to remove as if they fell off on their own. The dhyāna master placed the razor on the ground, adjusted his robes, bowed in reverence, and said: 'Dharmabhāṇaka Sengya has arrived; be my teacher, and I request to become your disciple.' Sengya merely made polite declinations. Once the monastic robes were on his body, the four assemblies revered him, took refuge, and offered their sincerity without any parsimony. Wherever there was sickness, there was none that was not cured upon his arrival. For thirty years he broadly practiced rescue and salvation. When he was over seventy, his mental energy was still robust. In the sixth month of the first year of the Wucheng reign-period of the Northern Zhou dynasty, at the entrance to the road west of the city wall of Yizhou, he wrapped the five fingers of both hands in cloth and burned them. Someone asked: 'Does burning your fingers not hurt?' Sengya said: 'Pain arises from the mind. Since the mind feels no pain, how could the fingers hurt?' The people of the time unanimously referred to him as Sengya Bodhisattva. Someone asked: 'You seem to have an air disorder; why not treat it?' He replied: 'The body is entirely empty; what would there be to treat?' The person said further: 'The sense organs and elements are paired with objects; why say they are empty?' He replied: 'Where then do the four great elements and the five sense organs abide?' The crowd was convinced by his words. Dharmabhāṇaka Dui of Xiao'ai Temple possessed profound insight. Hearing that Sengya had revealed his remarkable origins, he led several dozen disciples there to pay homage, took off his robes to donate to him, and looked at the assembly, saying: 'This is true understanding of prajñā, not mere talk.' As a result, both monastics and laity gathered in crowds, and their reverence and faith doubled. After days had passed like this, the fingers of his left hand were consumed, and the fire reached the palm. The bone marrow boiled and bubbled up, threatening to extinguish the flames, so he used the remaining fingers of his right hand to grasp bamboo to poke and adjust the fire. Someone asked the reason. Sengya said: 'Because sentient beings cannot practice forbearance, I now urge those who cannot endure to endure, and those who do not burn to burn.' In addition, he preached the Dharma to exhort them, bidding them practice compassion and refrain from meat. Although the smoke and flames both blazed fiercely, day after night he burned both hands, his brow and eyes not moving in the least. He also preached the Dharma and recited sūtras for the four assemblies. Whenever he reached urgent phrases or essential meanings, he would nod and smile. At times when people grew weary in mind and whispered among themselves, Sengya looked back and said: 'When I was in the mountains, I was originally illiterate. Now, hearing the words of the sūtra, every phrase resonates with my mind. Why do you not listen attentively with a sincere mind? If you turn against this, then this burning of my hands is in vain—how would it differ from burning firewood?' Thereupon the great assembly felt awe-struck, and there was none who was not completely devoted. Later, he told the crowd again: 'In this final kalpa, careless and arrogant minds become shallow and indifferent; seeing an image is regarded as looking at wood, and hearing sūtras is treated like wind blowing past a horse's ear. I now burn my hands and extinguish my body for the sake of transcribing the teachings of the Mahāyāna scriptures, wishing to cause people to place faith and reverence in the Buddhadharma.' All the men and women of the region who heard about it came to circumambulate him tens of thousands of times. Sengya remained serene and tranquil, his expression unchanging. Crowds repeatedly gathered on the thoroughfare west of the city to discuss the transformation wrought by the Dharma. At first there was a fine drizzle that almost soaked them; he then collected his mind and entered meditative absorption, whereupon the clouds dispersed and the moon shone brightly. The five burned arm and palm bones were like the embers of a burnt-down candle, but suddenly each sprouted and grew three inches longer, white as mother-of-pearl and snow. The monks and nuns all said: 'When the Bodhisattva passes into extinction, we wish to offer veneration to your śarīra and erect a stūpa to make offerings.' Sengya then used his mouth to bite the five newly grown bones, snapped them off, spat them out, and gave them to the great assembly, saying: 'These may be placed in a stūpa.' On the fourteenth day of the seventh month, there was suddenly a great sound resembling an earthquake and the sky cracking open; humans and livestock were terrified. Up in the sky people saw signs of dogs, sheep, dragons, snakes, weapons, and the like, which subsided after a short while. People asked Sengya about this matter, and he said: 'There is no suffering in this; it is merely the samādhi that awakens from sleep. I intend to abandon my body; you may prepare the offering requisites.' At that time, Dhyāna Master Dao of Xiao'ai Temple, a venerable bhadanta of pure and austere discipline, donated a six-fold khakkhara and a purple quilt as gifts to Sengya for his entry into the fire at Qianwei. Sengyuan sent a patched robe from afar, desiring it to accompany his body. At that time, people and goods were clamorous, and donated wealth piled up like mountains; at first, it was not known that the two virtuous masters had sent these items. At dawn the next day, he suddenly told his attendant Fatou: 'Go fetch Master Dao's khakkhara and purple quilt, as well as the patchwork kāṣāya, and put them on me.' Then he proceeded to the site for burning his body. At that time, over a hundred thousand monastics and laity escorted his carriage, weeping. Sengya said: 'Only guard the bodhicitta; there is no righteousness in weeping.' He then climbed onto the high seat to preach the Dharma for the assembly. Occasionally lifting his eyes to look at the pyre, he smiled joyfully to himself. He then reclined on his right side and lay down, completely without breath, resembling a wooden puppet. He arose and asked, 'Is the time about to arrive?' Then he stepped down and addressed the monks: 'The Buddhadharma is difficult to encounter; we should protect and maintain it together.' The firewood that had previously been accumulated was stacked into a tower several zhang high, atop which was built a small booth of dried hemp soaked with oil. Sengya walked slowly to the tower, circumambulated it three times, bowed toward the four gates, and then climbed atop it. Leaning against the railing, he looked down and instructed them to be mindful of prajñā. A donor named Wang Zhuan said fearfully: 'If I set the fire, I will burn a holy person and incur grave guilt.' Sengya knew this inwardly, told Wang Zhuan to ascend the tower, stroked his head with his arm, and said: 'Do not worry that building the tower brings guilt; it brings great blessings.' He urged them to apply the fire, but they were all frightened and placed their torches on the ground. Sengya held a torch with his arm, first setting fire to the northwest and then to the southwest. The hemp was dry and the oil thick; the blaze burst into a fierce roar. Amidst the roaring flames, he made his bows; by the second prostration, his body and face were scorched and burnt. After one more bow, his body fell onto the burning coals. When the firewood was consumed and the fire extinguished, the bones and flesh had all melted away, but the heart remained intact, red and moist, with the liver, intestines, spleen, and stomach still linked together. They used forty more cartloads of firewood to burn it; although the intestines and stomach curled up, the heart remained just as before. Dharmabhāṇaka Dui ordered that it be collected and buried beneath a stūpa; it is now at Baoyuan Temple. Earlier, before he burned himself, an inquirer asked: 'When the Bodhisattva enters extinction, we pray you show an auspicious sign.' Sengya said: 'My body can be destroyed, but my heart will not be ruined.' The assembly thought the mind-spirit was formless and not subject to destruction by fire; only later, when the heart remained, did they realize that he had foreseen this and left behind the one heart that does not perish. Throughout his life until the end, Sengya frequently displayed extraordinary signs, numbering several dozen instances. Once, when he was about to confer the precepts at a household, he suddenly smiled and said: 'Are you about to donate a treasure, but giving rise to doubts and hesitations?' The crowd asked around, and there was a woman of the Yang family who wished to donate a silver hairpin but feared her husband's rebuke, whereupon she resolved to give it up. There was a monk of Xiao'ai Temple named Foyu who was overly fond of food and drink, living in a vulgar and undisciplined manner. Following behind Sengya's carriage, he made a private vow: 'Now that I have encountered a holy man, I vow to abstain from wine and meat.' When he returned to the temple, he saw a yellow-complexioned man who said: 'It is very good that you can abstain from meat. If you eat the meat of a single sentient being, you are eating the meat of all sentient beings. If you eat it again, you are eating the meat of all your parents and relatives. If you insist on eating meat, it should be regarded as maggots in a corpse—maggots are just meat.' He also said: 'Contemplating the good during the six periods of the day is very good. If you cannot manage all, even doing so in a single period is good. Even maintaining such a thought for a single moment is good; all can extinguish evil.' Seeing that his words were upright and true, and his tones harmonious and elegant, Foyu was about to ask questions, but the man vanished shortly after. Thereupon Foyu earnestly exerted himself in vigorous practice, circumambulating the stūpa and chanting. He also heard a voice in the sky say: 'Diligently observe the fast; vow that sentient beings obtain bodies that do not need to feed on others, and also cause the bodies of hungry ghosts to be ever filled and satisfied.' Viewing these spiritual responses, they were all due to Sengya's power. When he first climbed the firewood tower, the śramaṇa Sengyu, standing at the gate of Dajianchang Temple, saw a blazing light four to five zhang high and three to four zhang wide rise from the ground, soaring up beside the tower, only to extinguish after a long time. Furthermore, on the first day of the burning, the great bhadanta of the prefectural temple, the śramaṇa Baohai, asked: 'It is the same fire; why does the Bodhisattva show no signs of pain when burned?' Sengya said: 'Sentient beings have signs (nimitta), which is why they experience pain.' Baohai also asked: 'It is often said that one bears suffering on behalf of sentient beings; can one truly do so or not?' He replied: 'Since one generates the mind to take it on their behalf, why could one not?' Baohai asked again: 'When the Bodhisattva burns himself, sentient beings' karmic transgressions have ripened and each bears their own suffering; how can it be substituted?' Sengya replied: 'Just as in burning a hand with a single thought of wholesome roots, one can immediately extinguish evil. How is that not taking their place?' At that time, Dharmabhāṇaka Pu asked further: 'Two schools argue over the great meaning and have never resolved it. One says that the Buddha's wisdom takes the signless principle as its object; the principle is the perceived object, and wisdom is the perceiving subject. The other says that eliminating delusions and putting an end to falsehood is itself the ultimate truth. Which is definitive?' Sengya said: 'The Buddha is signlessness itself; there is no other distinct sign.' Dharmabhāṇaka Hai said: 'The Buddha is signlessness; the sign of signlessness originally has no distinct sign. If so, then the Bodhisattva is Śākyamuni and Avalokiteśvara.' Sengya said: 'I am an ordinary mortal. I vow to enter the hells to endure suffering on behalf of sentient beings, wishing only to bring them to Buddhahood.' Hai said: 'Previous Buddhas also had this vow; why did they achieve Buddhahood so early?' He replied: 'Previous Buddhas finished saving the sentient beings of their time.' Hai asked again: 'Why have sages such as Bhaiṣajyarāja achieved Buddhahood, while you, the Bodhisattva alone, have not yet achieved Buddhahood, yet still save sentient beings? If so, the previous Buddhas are significantly deficient.' Sengya replied: 'Sentient beings of the previous period already grasped Bhaiṣajyarāja's intent; sentient beings of today have not yet grasped my intent. My teaching of them is just beginning, like a flower that is about to fall.' His responses at that time were all of this nature. He then said to his attendant Zhiyan: 'After my extinction, take good care of the sick. It is difficult to fathom their origin; most are Buddhas and sages manifesting through skillful means. Unless one has a great and impartial mind, how could one show them reverence? This is true practice.' When there was someone in the gathering who doubted that Sengya was a holy man, Sengya called the person directly by name, saying: 'When the Buddhas manifest in the world, their forms have no fixed appearance; they may appear ugly, afflicted with various diseases, or even as lowly beasts. Dānapati, be cautious and do not lightly disparage them.' When the fire was about to be lit, everyone witnessed extraordinary signs: some saw a round canopy covering Sengya, with three men of the Way seated atop the canopy; some saw five-colored light resembling human figures at the four gates; some saw atop the pyre a form resembling the rising sun and rains of various flowers, the large ones like baskets of two hu, the small ones like stalactite fragments, descending in a flurry of mingled five colors. Many people tried to catch them, but upon touching them, they all dissolved. They also heard the booming of great drums, deep and resonant, which subsided only after a long time. After Sengya's extinction, the people of Pixian saw in the sky along the Pi River an oil-corded carriage with Sengya seated upon it. He wore a yellow patchwork robe, was draped with a purple quilt over one shoulder, and held a khakkhara. Behind him were five to six hundred monks, all holding bamboo parasols, soaring into the sky and disappearing toward the west. Furthermore, the monk Huice of Lingguo Temple in Tongzhou, upon hearing of Sengya's extinction, held a great feast in the old marketplace. Before the meal, they suddenly saw black clouds come from the southeast, veiling the sun and shading the assembly. Then rained down dragon bristles in five distinct colors, the long ones a foot and a half, the short ones still six inches. There also rained down various flowers and banners, and fragrant smoke filled the sky in profusion, seen by the entire assembly. When the heart-śarīra was first brought to Changzhu Temple, all saw flower bushes blossoming in full splendor, glorifying the courtyard. Furthermore, the monk Huisheng of Akaniṣṭha Temple, who was confined to bed with illness, could not witness the self-immolation and felt deep regret in his heart. He dreamt that Sengya came with a novice, carrying about three sheng of incense wrapped in cloth together with sandalwood chips, which they divided into four mounds around Huisheng, and set fire to burn the incense. Huisheng said in terror: 'I am only an ordinary mortal; I cannot burn my body!' Sengya said: 'Do not fear; this is used to fumigate away the disease.' When the cinders were extinguished, he immediately felt refreshed and healthy. He also requested an auspicious sign, and Sengya replied: 'In Yizhou, Sengya was merely my deceptive name; my true name is the Bodhisattva of Light Pervasively Illuminating the Treasury of Jewels.' When Huisheng awoke, his strength was double that of normal. At one time, a gathering was held for Sengya in an outlying village. Huisheng personally acted as the cantor, saying: 'Tongzhou has abundant blessings, so monastics and laity saw auspicious signs; our hindrances are heavy, so we have seen nothing at all.' Immediately responding to his words, about two hundred people all saw heavenly flowers falling like snow, filling the sky and reflecting against the sun as they descended. When the midday meal was finished, the shapes of the flowers grew larger, like seven-inch plates, all of a golden color, brightly illuminating the sun. The four assemblies competed to catch them, but none could be obtained; some climbed trees and mounted high places hoping to take them, but they all flew upward. Furthermore, Wang Senggui, a commoner of Chengdu, had his entire family abstain from meat after Sengya's immolation. Later, due to circumstances, they were about to resume eating meat and discussed it privately. At the second watch of the night, he suddenly heard someone outside calling for the dānapati. When he opened the door, he saw a man of the Way who said: 'Be cautious not to eat meat!' His words were poignant and earnest; he wept as he walked away. Wang ran after him, but the figure seemed close yet remained far, and suddenly disappeared. Furthermore, in the eighth month after the immolation, a Rang man named Mou Nandang was hunting on the summit of Jiujiao Mountain. Drawing an arrow to his crossbow and looking around for deer, he suddenly saw Sengya riding a blue-green roe deer. The hunter said in astonishment: 'You burned your body and died in Yizhou; how are you here now?' Sengya said: 'Who said that? It is only deceiving people! If you can burn your body, you will not shoot game and incur guilt. You should work diligently in farming.' He then departed. In winter, Sengya's nephew suddenly heard a clamor in the mountain valley while by a stream, as if from tens of thousands of people. Looking up, he saw Sengya followed by two monks, walking with a khakkhara. He chased after him and wished to grasp his kāṣāya. Sengya said: 'Why trouble yourself to grasp me?' He then pointed to the chickens and pigs ahead, saying: 'All these sounds contain expressions. Just as with your speech, others do not understand it, and you also do not understand the languages of other countries. Humans and beasts differ, yet all possess the Buddha-nature; it is only due to evil karma that they have received these forms. You should only work diligently at farming and not raise poultry or livestock.' His words were extremely detailed. Thus, his frequent manifestations and foreknowledge of people's thoughts were generally like this. The details are recorded in the collection by the Śramaṇa Wangming, Fei's Sanbao lu, and the Record of Gathered Anomalies of the Yibu Region.
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Shi Puyuan: It is not known where he came from. What was recounted in public report suggests he had lived by the rivers and seas. At the beginning of the reign of Emperor Wu of the Northern Zhou, he came wandering to the Three Auxiliaries. His features and posture were handsome, his bearing magnificent and grand; his words were deliberate, and his gaze composed and unhurried—he possessed the spirit and air of an extraordinary man. He visited many famous mountains and great rivers, constantly taking the dhūta practices as his aim, delighting in the practice of compassionate rescue and prioritizing the benefit of others. Whenever someone turned to him, he would immediately guide and ordain them, teaching them the essentials of practice and having them abide by austere discipline. He recited the Huayan jing in its entirety, concealing all sound and outward sign of it so that no one knew; his attending disciples only later came to know of it. Furthermore, he constantly sat on a rope bed, composed his demeanor in absorption, and focused his mind with such thoroughness that he took no notice of the passing of morning or evening. Sometimes he would go briefly to villages and hamlets to beg for food, but for the most part he stayed in forests and graveyards to seek tranquility for contemplation. At night, a fearsome ghost of extremely terrifying appearance—with four eyes and six fangs, clutching a crooked staff, hair hanging down from its body—came straight before him. Puyuan glared at it with furious eyes, completely without fear or intimidation, and before long it retreated; instances like this were not unique. There was also an evil man who begged Puyuan for his head; when Puyuan was about to cut it off and give it to him, the man refused to take it. He then begged for an eye, and Puyuan was immediately about to gouge it out and bestow it. The man then demanded a hand; Puyuan thereupon tied his wrist to a tree with a rope, severed it at the elbow, and gave it to him. Overcome with faintness, he collapsed onto the ground. The villagers only heard of it the next morning. Because of this, he died at Fanchuan in the southern suburbs. The villagers, lamenting his ascetic practice, vied to collect his remains for burial. As the assembly could not settle their disagreement, they divided his corpse into several portions and each built a stūpa over them.
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Shi Puji: A native of the North Mountain, Hu, in Yongzhou. When he first entered monastic life, he took refuge in Dhyāna Master Puyuan. Regarding the rituals and rules of practice: he dwelt alone in the forests and wilderness, never spending the night among worldly people, and sat cross-legged cultivating dhyāna until the end of his days. He wandered and dwelt in desolate, perilous places, not avoiding jackals or tigers. Though he roved beyond worldly affairs, a scroll was never out of his hands. He once read the Huayan jing, relying on it to conclude his karmic vows. After the Buddha's Dharma declined and was abolished, he threw himself into the Taibai mountains; traveling without carrying provisions, he fed on grasses in accordance with the seasons, chewing, swallowing, and drinking without any harm. He vowed that once the semblance teaching arose again, he would abandon his body as an offering, cultivate the practices of Samantabhadra, and be reborn in the Realm of the Foremost of Worthies. At the beginning of the Kaihuang era, when the gates of the Dharma were vastly opened, his wish was fulfilled. Thereupon he undertook the abandonment of his body: gathering a crowd at the western cliff of Coal Valley (Tangu), he made vast and great vows, cast himself down, and perished. People from distant regions flocked there, filling the crags and valleys, and built a white stūpa for him upon the high peak. In the early Zhenguan era, there was also a mountain-dwelling śramaṇa named Puji: his moral discipline was courageous and striking, and his upright devotion stood resolute. He constantly wandered among famous mountains, practicing and reciting the scriptures; he was especially fluent in the Pañcaviṃśatisāhasrikā-prajñāpāramitā Sūtra and the Lotus Sūtra. Wherever he gathered a crowd, he would mostly recite these two scriptures, repeatedly expounding on them according to the text from time to time. The reach of his voice extended a full li around, so that among a gathering of several tens of thousands, none failed to hear it. In the eighteenth year of the Wude era, he traveled west into the Guanzhong region; occasionally passing through cities and villages, he would still return to dwell in forest tranquility. During the monk ordinations of the Zhenguan era, because Puji lacked a household registration, he was specially elevated to the official register and took up residence at Guangming Monastery in the capital. Crowds gathered like mountains, delighting to hear the scriptures' purports. Puji grew weary of this clamor and commotion, whereupon he cast off his fame, fled into seclusion, and no one knew where he had gone. Some say that he is now sitting alone upon a secluded crag on Mount Zhongnan, with abundant mountain fruits nearby; whenever someone needs them, they carry them back, but when they attempt to seek him out again, they lose the path by which they came. I was once gathered together with this man and took pleasure in seeing him. His robes were a patchwork of a hundred rags joined together; his bowl barely served for receiving food; an earthenware jar for drawing water had a hemp rope tied around its neck. When sitting, he used grass for a mat, his ribs never touching the ground. Valiant, bold, and resolute, the hindrance of drowsiness could not deceive him; frugal, thrifty, and self-effacing, the thief of profit left no trace. In his discourse, knowing contentment was foremost; in his instruction of the correct doctrine, acting in accordance with practice was supreme. For this reason, though offerings piled up like mountains while he sat expounding the Dharma, he never glanced at or involved himself with them, leaving them entirely to overseers. Then, reflecting deeply, he said, 'That which belongs to cities and towns takes the five desires as its root. My power is already slight, and it is not fitting that I should entrap myself.' Thereupon he fled into hiding.
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Shi Puan was surnamed Guo. He was a native of Jingyang in Jingzhao. In his youth he went forth under Dhyāna Master Yuan. Resolute in ascetic discipline and dhūta practice, he renounced and cast off secular affairs. Yet by nature he was harmonious and forbearing, taking no pleasure in enmity or cruelty. At times he took the place of others in labor and chores, enduring all manner of toil and hardship; his mind relished them like sweet chicory, fearing only that the tasks would come to an end. Later he turned to Dharma Master Ai; he became thoroughly versed in the Tripiṭaka and took the Avataṃsaka as his regular study, using its reading, recitation, and dhyāna contemplation as his standard. When the Zhou dynasty suppressed the Dharma, he went into seclusion on the western slope of Pianzi Valley in the Zhongnan Mountains. Sheltered by the deep forest, he lived detached far beyond the worldly sphere, his conduct as pure as mountain springs and rocks, walking in the footsteps of Chao You and Shan Fu. He also invited Dharma Master Jingyuan to dwell together in the wilds, where they unraveled and explained the deep and profound, cultivating and receiving the mysterious principle. In addition, he observed and practiced ascetic austerities, giving up his body for living beings. At times he bared his body in the tall grass to give it to mosquitoes and gnats, his flesh bathed in blood, without ever harboring any dread. At other times he lay down among scattered corpses to offer himself to jackals and tigers, hoping to surrender his life to fulfill his fundamental resolve. Yet though the tigers and leopards came, they all merely sniffed him and did not eat. He was constantly distressed that his wish was not fulfilled; he walked alone following the tracks of beasts, hoping to be devoured. At that time heaven and earth were shuttered, and the Semblance Teaching was obscured. State orders were severe, not permitting monks to flee the calamity. More than thirty monks of eminent virtue from the capital had fled to Zhongnan, with no safe place to rest their mortal frames. An then summoned them all to gather on the islets [of the streams] and settled them in hidden, secluded places, while he himself dwelt out in the open and went about begging for food, unafraid of severe punishment. Thus both food and clothing were abundant, and their practice of cultivation was not abandoned. Is he not what is meant by a wise man who knows his role in times of chaos? At that time a heavy bounty was offered, promising ten bolts of goods for capturing a single monk. A man responded to the bounty and came wishing to arrest An. [An] comforted and reasoned with him, saying, 'Seeing that you are impoverished and distressed, I wish to help you.' After preparing food for him, they entered the capital together. The emperor said to the man, 'The laws of my state are severe and do not permit men of the Dao among the populace. You make them harsher still by not permitting men of the Dao in the mountains. If so, where will you send them to live? He should be released into the mountains; no investigation is needed.' Moreover, a Zhou official named Liu Baize was ordered by imperial decree to search the mountain slopes for fugitive monks. An accomplice reported, saying, 'Inside this Pianzi Valley there is the Daoist Puan.' He was then sent to pursue and seize him, and came back together with him. Ze said to his accomplice, 'I saw nothing; he should be released and sent back at once.' Thereupon, freed of concern, he returned to where he lived. Whenever he met with calamities, he never hid himself, yet he was always exonerated and freed; such were the precedents. At that time Dharma Master Ai was avoiding the calamity at the house of Du Yingshi in Yi Valley, where a kiln had been dug to hide him. When An was released and returned, he stopped by to pay his respects. Ai said, 'Venerable An, your understanding of the Buddha's Dharma is not yet broad and extensive, but your spirit and resolve are peerless, yielding to no oppressor. Indeed, it is hard to equal!' An said, 'That I have now escaped disaster is solely due to the power of the Avataṃsaka. There is none among all my sincere prayers that does not rely on it.' He then invited Ai to return to the mountain and personally managed his needs. From all directions people were drawn by his reputation, coming to join him in great numbers. Ai and An then further opened up the place where they dwelt, as detailed in the separate biography. When Emperor Wen of the Sui began his reign, Buddhism flourished greatly. Fugitive monks were recruited widely to be settled as before. At that time, more than thirty monks from Pianzi Valley answered the edict to go forth, and all took up residence in official monasteries. Only An, though rejoicing in this revival, did not chase fame; he remained in his original mountain dwelling, keeping his simplicity among the forest and ravines. Occasionally he went to villages to benefit living beings, but he ultimately reposed among the mists and clouds, not associating with the worldly dust. Later, someone carved a grotto and built a hermitage beside the confluence of the two valleys of Ziwu and Hulin, and invited him to dwell there. When he first resided in the grotto, there was a great boulder directly above it. Fearing it would fall, it was dug out, whereupon it tumbled down the steep slope. An thought to himself, 'May it shift to another place and not shatter the grotto hermitage!' The boulder then burst aside to another spot as he had spoken. The great assembly was all amazed. An said, 'It is the power of the Avataṃsaka; it is nothing to wonder at.' Furthermore, on the cliff left of the stream east of the grotto, there was a dhūta monk named Suo, who was a great scourge to the river valleys, unruly and tyrannical on many occasions. Secretly jealous of An's virtue, he constantly thought to slay and destroy him. Together with three companions, he carried bows and gripped blades; rolling up his sleeves, he drew his bow and was about to loose an arrow. But the arrow would not leave the string, and his hands remained stretched without pause; with glaring eyes and his tongue muted, he stood frozen overnight. News of this spread far and wide, and people gathered like clouds. The villagers bowed their heads, showed sincere devotion, and begged for deliverance. An said, 'I truly know nothing of this; how could it not be the power of the Avataṃsaka? If you wish to be freed, just make him repent.' Following these instructions, he was finally released. Furthermore, west of the grotto, in Wei Village, there was Zhang Hui, who had long harbored evil thoughts and lived by theft. At night he went to An's place and secretly took a jar of the Buddha's lamp-oil, holding five dous, and carried it out on his back. As soon as he reached the courtyard gate, he became dazed and lost his senses, as if bound, unable to move. His family and fellow villagers came together to apologize. An said, 'I know nothing; it must be the power of the Avataṃsaka!' He told him to repent and helped remove the oil jar; following his words, the man was freed. Furthermore, south of the grotto, Zhang Qing came to steal An's money and carried it off in his sleeve. When he reached home, he poured it out, but nothing would emerge, and his mouth was muted and unable to speak. Qing immediately returned to repent and went back along the road he came. In Chengguo Village, there was Cheng Huihe, who was quite faithful and constantly came to An's place to listen to the essential Dharma. Falling ill, he died; two nights had passed, and his body was wrapped on the ground, awaiting encoffining and burial. At that time An had previously gone to Hu County. On his way back along the road, he arrived at Dexing Monastery in the southwest, five li east of Hui's village. From afar he called out, 'Cheng Huihe, why do you not come to meet me?' He called repeatedly without pause. A farmer said, 'He has long been dead; there is no way he can meet you.' An said, 'These are wild words; I do not believe them.' Soon he reached the village and called out in a loud voice. He's body then moved, and his relatives cut the ropes wrapped around him. An entered his courtyard and called out loudly to him again. He then sat up, crawling toward An. [An] ordered the removal of the coffin gear, overturned an arrow-basket to serve as a Buddha-seat, and made He circumambulate it. Soon he was as well as before, and lived for some twenty more years. Later, falling gravely ill, he came to plead for help. An said, 'You let yourself wander dissolutely; this is beyond my doing.' He then passed away. At that time An's renown spread abroad, and monastics and laity held him in high esteem; such cases were numerous. All came to pay respects and hold meritorious gatherings, and there were many miraculous responses; a few will be briefly recounted. To the north of Kunming Lake, in Bai Village, an elderly mother was bedridden with illness and had lost her voice for a hundred days. She gestured to her sons and daughters that she longed to see An's form. Discerning their mother's wish, they invited him to their home. When the sick mother saw him, she unawares stepped down to welcome him, exchanging greetings as on ordinary days, and the illness completely vanished. At that time his fame surged even more; the villages gathered together, each leading musical ensembles, going from house to house to announce that they wished to hold a great vegetarian feast. In Dawan Village, Tian Yisheng was utterly destitute, having only four daughters. His wife wore ragged hemp that barely reached her knees, and the four daughters were stark naked, without a single thread on them. The eldest daughter was named Huayan, aged twenty; she had only two feet of coarse cloth intended as an offering. An led the village crowd and came to their door in turn, but pitying their poverty, he passed by without entering. The eldest daughter thought, 'Because of our poverty and distress we cannot join the merit assembly. If we do not cultivate [merit] now, our misery will be doubled in future lives.' Searching everywhere for an offering, all was desolate with nowhere to turn. Raising her face and weeping bitterly, she saw under the roof-ridge a handful of tangled hemp used to plug a skylight. Pulling it down and shaking it out, she found some ten-odd grains of millet; rubbing them, she made rice, and intended to offer this along with the cloth to participate in rejoicing. Lacking clothes, she waited until nightfall, crawled on all fours to the feast offering place, threw the cloth offering from afar into the crowd, and separately offered the ten-odd grains of rice into the cooking pot. Then she made a vow, saying, 'A woman's impoverished karma was planted by herself long ago. I now exhaust all my poverty to make this offering, hoping for future recompense. I boldly cast these ten-odd grains of yellow millet into the rice steamer. If my sincerity is true and my impoverished karma is exhausted, may the cooked rice turn entirely yellow! If there is no response, what can be done about fate?' Having made this vow, she wiped her tears and returned. Thereupon, the five piculs of rice in the steamer all turned yellow. The great assembly was astonished and sighed, not knowing the cause. Searching all around for the origin, they were told it was the vow of Tian Yisheng's daughter. The participants of the vegetarian feast together contributed ten bushels of millet to relieve her immediately. An prepared Dharma robes and ordained Huayan, sending her to a monastery in the capital. Thereafter his fame revived further, and his profound awakening was beyond words. Though An dwelt in secluded places, he constantly practiced compassionate rescue. Every year, during the spring and autumn festivals, many blood sacrifices were held; he traveled around redeeming [animals] and encouraging the cultivation of Dharma principles, so that settlements that ceased slaughtering were numerous. Once, in a village beside his grotto, three pigs were tied up and about to be slaughtered. Hearing of this, An went to redeem them. Fearing they would not be allowed to slaughter them, the villagers raised their demand to ten thousand coins. An said, 'I have only three thousand coins, which already exceeds ten times their original price; we can agree on this.' The crowd held differing views and argued angrily with one another. Suddenly a boy, with sheepskin wrapped around his belly, came to the festival gathering to help An redeem the pigs. Seeing the quarrel, he begged for wine; drinking and dancing as he went, spinning dazzlingly, the entire assembly, young and old, suddenly went blind. In a moment he vanished, and no one knew where he went. An then drew a knife and cut the flesh from his own thigh, saying, 'This is also flesh. Pigs eat filth, yet you still eat them; how much more so for a human who eats grain, which is inherently noble!' Hearing and seeing this, the villagers released them all at once. Once freed, the pigs circumambulated An three times and nudged him with their snouts as if showing love and reverence. Because of this, within fifty li southwest of the suburbs, chickens and pigs ceased to be bred, even down to the present day. Such was his power to evoke compassion. By nature he was thoroughly sincere and loved reading the Avataṃsaka Sūtra; with one bowl and three robes, he grew ever more diligent with each passing decade. In the eighth year of the Kaihuang reign, he was repeatedly summoned to the capital to serve as teacher to the Crown Prince. The Eldest Princess founded the Jingfa Monastery and invited him to dwell there. Although his name belonged to an imperial temple, he always slept in mountain crags. On the fifth day of the eleventh month in the fifth year of the Daye reign, he passed away in the Dhyāna Courtyard of Jingfa Monastery at the age of eighty. His remains were placed in a stūpa erected in Zhongnan, beside the Zhixiang Monastery.
27.20
Śramaṇa Dazhi, whose secular surname was Gu, was a native of Shanyin in Kuaiji. He renounced secular life in his youth, studying under Chan Master Zhiyi, the Zhizhe of Tiantai. Zhiyi saw that his disposition and mind were aloof and elevated far above mundane matters, and accordingly bestowed upon him the name Dazhi ('Great Aspiration'). Taking meditation and scriptural recitation as his daily practice, he dedicated himself strictly to ascetic discipline. Wherever there was a celebrated place across the four quarters, no matter how distant, he was certain to visit it. His voice and tone were serene and pure, his deportment upright and solemn; hence all who saw him took note and knew he was no ordinary vessel. In the tenth year of the Kaihuang reign, he traveled to Mount Lu and resided at the Peak Temple, neither enrolling in the official registers nor joining the common ranks of the saṅgha. He recited the Lotus Sūtra with a detachment and grace and an extraordinarily clear and melodious chanting that made all listeners forget their fatigue. Later, to the south of Dew Peak on Mount Hua, he established the Pure Contemplation Bodhimaṇḍa and made dhūta practice his occupation. All alone, he avoided neither roaring tigers [nor ferocious beasts]; whenever he heard of a vicious predatory animal, he would go directly to offer himself to it, but they all turned away and refused to devour him. On the mountain, grains were entirely absent; he spent the whole day forgetting to eat, sustaining his life solely on cakes and fruits. While onlookers could not endure such hardship, Zhi took it in stride, his countenance remaining unchanged. Seven years passed without any interruption in his meditational practice. In his later years he resided at Fulin Temple on this mountain. Just then, under the Daye reign, the hermits were banned and forcibly relocated; lamenting that the Dharma had declined to such an extent, he altered his attire and disfigured his appearance: on his head he wore mourning garb, and rough coarse cloth served as his robes. Standing within the Buddha hall, he wailed and wept aloud for three days and three nights without cessation. When the monks of the temple offered consoling words, Zhi said: 'I merely lament that our unwholesome karma has come to this! I must exhaust this physical frame to make the correct teaching shine forth.' He then went to the Eastern Capital and submitted a memorial saying: 'May Your Majesty cause the Three Jewels to flourish and become manifest. I shall burn one arm on Mount Song to repay the imperial debt of gratitude.' The Emperor granted his request and ordered a great vegetarian feast to be held, where the seven assemblies gathered together. Zhi fasted for three days, mounted a high platform, and used glowing, red-hot iron to brand his arm, scorching it black. He then severed it with a knife until the flesh tore open and the bone appeared. After branding the bone to make it black as well, he wrapped it in cloth, poured wax over it, and set it ablaze from below, illuminating the cliffs and mountain peaks. At that moment, seeing his severe self-mortification, the great assembly felt heart-piercing anguish down to their marrow and could not stand still. Yet, even as Zhi underwent the scorching fire, his expression and words remained unchanged, speaking and smiling just as before. At times he recited verses of the Dharma, and at times praised the virtues of the Buddha, unceasingly preaching the Dharma to the assembly. Once his arm had burned away, he climbed down from the platform as composed as before; seven days later, sitting cross-legged, he entered absorption and passed away at the age of forty-three. From his initial ordination until his end, his resolve was as steadfast as pine and bamboo; throughout winter and summer he wore only a single robe, never donning fine silks or padded garments, wearing coarse hemp and plain unadorned clothing as a regular custom. His complexion was exceedingly fair, his lips like vermilion paint, his robe fell to mid-calf, and his feet wore rushes-woven sandals. His speech was lively and bright, his bearing soaring beyond the clouds. If someone unfamiliar with him asked in wonder where he came from, he would stroke his eyebrows and declare: 'I am merely the petty śramaṇa Dazhi of Fulin Temple on Mount Lu in Jiujiang.' He was also skilled in literary composition, drafting clear and moving words. He composed a vow text of more than seventy sheets of paper, intending to be a good spiritual friend (kalyāṇamitra) along with all sentient beings. Even violent, unyielding monks who were difficult to inspire with faith could not hold back their tears upon reading this vow. Today, toward the end of every year on the peak of Mount Lu, the resident monks of various temples gather for a night to read his posthumous vow in order to admonish monks and laity alike, leaving the entire assembly moved to tears.
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- 續高僧傳 — 道宣, Classical Chinese