法苑珠林 58.8

58.8

Furthermore, the *Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish* states: In the past, when the Buddha was in the world, there was the bhikṣuṇī Sukṣmā who attained the fruit of an arhat. Together with the assembly of nuns, she herself spoke of the retributions for the good and evil karmic deeds she had performed in the past. She said to the nuns: 'Long ago in the past, there was an elder whose household was exceedingly wealthy, but he had no sons. He took a secondary wife whom he loved and cherished deeply. Later, she gave birth to a boy, and husband and wife revered and loved him without weariness. The primary wife was jealous at heart and secretly thought to herself: "If this child grows up, he will take over the family estate. What benefit is there in all my vain and diligent toil to amass wealth? It would be better to kill him." She then took an iron needle and pierced the child's jaw, and he subsequently died. The secondary wife suspected the primary wife of killing him and directly said to her: "You killed my son!" At that time, the primary wife thought that there was no sin or merit and no calamity of karmic retribution, so she swore an oath with an imprecation: "If I killed your son, may my husband in lifetime after lifetime be bitten by a snake, may the sons I bear be swept away by water and eaten by wolves, may I myself eat my own children's flesh, may my body be buried alive in this life, and may my parents' household die in a fire!" Having made this oath, she later died. Due to having killed the child, she fell into hell and underwent immeasurable suffering. When her hell retribution was completed, she was born among humans as the daughter of a brāhmaṇa. Gradually growing up, she was married into a husband's household and gave birth to a son. Later she became pregnant again, and when her months were full and she was about to give birth, husband and wife set out together toward her parents' house. On the road, her abdomen pained her and she gave birth. At night they lodged under a tree, and her husband slept separately. All the oaths she had previously sworn she now received: at that time, a venomous snake bit and killed her husband. Seeing her husband dead, the woman fainted away, only reviving later. When dawn arrived, she took the older child on her shoulders, held the younger one in her arms, and proceeded on the road weeping. On the road was a river, both deep and wide. She left the older child on this bank, first held the younger one, crossed, and placed him on the other bank. As she returned to fetch the older child, the child saw his mother coming, entered the water, and went toward his mother; the water immediately swept him away. His mother gave chase, but her strength could not save him; in an instant, he suddenly drowned and died. When she returned toward the younger child, a wolf had come and finished devouring him; she saw only blood scattered in disorder on the ground. The mother swooned away and only revived after a long while. She then proceeded along the road and encountered a brāhmaṇa who was a friend of her father. She then recounted her hardships in full to the brāhmaṇa. The brāhmaṇa took pity on her and wept facing her. She then asked whether her family was safe. The brāhmaṇa replied: "Recently, all your parents and relatives, great and small, perished all at once in a fire." Hearing this, she was overcome with anguish and died, then revived again. The brāhmaṇa brought her home and provided for her like a daughter. Later she was married again, and became pregnant and was about to give birth. Her husband went out drinking wine and returned only at dusk. In the dark, the woman closed the door and sat alone inside. In a moment, the woman gave birth. Her husband called at the door, but the birth was not finished and there was no one to open it. The husband broke down the door, entered, seized the woman, and beat her severely. The woman explained the reason of the childbirth, but because the husband was furious, he immediately took the child, killed it, boiled it in clarified butter, and forced the woman to eat it. After eating her child, the woman's heart was filled with grief and distress. She reflected on her meager fortune to have met such a man, so she abandoned him, fled to Vārāṇasī, and sat to rest under a tree in a park. There was an elder's son whose wife had recently died; every day he would come to the tomb, longing and weeping. Seeing this woman sitting alone under the tree, he questioned her, and they subsequently became husband and wife. After several days, the husband suddenly died. According to the law of that country, if husband and wife loved each other during life, when the husband died, the wife was to be buried alive with him. At that time, a band of thieves came and opened the tomb. The chief of the thieves saw that the woman's face was beautiful and fair, so he took her as his wife. After several tens of days, the husband raided another tomb and was killed by its owner. The thief's companions brought the corpse, handed it over to the wife, and buried her alive with him again. After three days, foxes and wolves opened the tomb, and she was thereby able to escape. She reproached herself, saying: "What past sin do I have that within tens of days I encounter such disasters and calamities, dying and reviving again? Where can I go now to preserve the remainder of my life?" Hearing that Śākyamuni Buddha was in the Jetavana, she went to the Buddha's place, pleaded for pity, and went forth as a renunciant. Because of the power of her past vow made when giving food to a pratyekabuddha, she was now able to meet the Buddha, go forth as a renunciant, cultivate the path, and attain arhatship. She completely understood that her past karma of taking life and her swearing of oaths caused her to fall into hell and in the present undergo such bitter and evil retributions, with no one to take her place.' Sukṣmā herself said: 'The primary wife of the past was my very self. Although I have attained arhatship, a hot iron needle constantly enters through the crown of my head and exits from the soles of my feet; day and night I suffer from this and can bear it no longer. Calamities and misfortunes are like this; in the end they never decay or perish.'