36. The Power of Virtue

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva was born as a king so consistently kind-hearted and generous that he came to be known throughout his realm as Matribala – a name meaning “He whose strength is kindness.” His love of virtue proved contagious; under his rule, the people of his kingdom naturally followed his example, and crime and cruelty grew almost unheard of. His subjects lived free of fear, secure in a peace that seemed to radiate outward from the king himself.

One day, five Yakshas – wicked spirits who had been banished from their own kingdom by Kubera, king of the Yakshas, for some past offence – arrived in Matribala's territory, drawn by dark intentions. Bitterly resentful of the kingdom's happiness, they resolved to sow chaos and misery wherever they could.

But try as they might, nothing worked. Every scheme they attempted failed inexplicably, as though some invisible shield stood between them and the people they meant to harm. Baffled, the Yakshas muttered among themselves, “Our powers, which have never failed us before, are useless here. We must discover what protects this place.” Disguising themselves as poor Brahmins, they set out to explore the kingdom and learn its secret.

Their search led them to a quiet forest clearing, where they found a young shepherd boy resting alone beneath a great tree, his face utterly untroubled – no trace of fear, distrust, or sorrow visible upon it at all. Curious, the disguised Yakshas approached him. “Dear boy,” they said, “you sit here all alone in this forest. Are you not afraid?”

The boy looked at them with genuine puzzlement. “Afraid of what?” he asked.

“Surely you have heard of Yakshas,” they pressed, “who feed upon human flesh and blood? Even the bravest warriors tremble at the mention of them.”

At this, the boy laughed outright. “You must be strangers to this land,” he said, still smiling. “Our king's virtue forms a shield around this entire kingdom – a protection so complete that not even the gods themselves could breach it. Why, then, should I fear mere Yakshas?”

Defeated by a shield they could neither see nor overcome, the five Yakshas abandoned Matribala's kingdom entirely, and were never seen there again.

Moral: A kingdom built on genuine virtue becomes its own protection – no malice, however powerful, can find a foothold where fear and mistrust have no place to grow.

37. The Sacrifice

The pious King Sivi of Aritthapura was, in that life, the Bodhisattva himself, and stories of his boundless kindness and generosity travelled far beyond the borders of his kingdom, reaching even the ears of the gods in heaven. Curious to test the truth of such tales, Sakka, king of the gods, disguised himself as a blind Brahmin and journeyed to Sivi's royal court.

The king welcomed the visitor warmly, as he did every guest, and asked gently what had brought him so far. “O most generous king,” the disguised Sakka said, “I have heard tell of your extraordinary kindness from every corner of this land, and it is that very kindness I have come to seek. I long more than anything to see this beautiful world with my own eyes – will you grant me the gift of yours?”

A stunned silence fell over the entire court. Even the king's most loyal courtiers and closest friends rushed to object, insisting that no reasonable ruler should sacrifice his own sight for a stranger's request. But King Sivi remained calm and unmoved by their protests. Without a trace of hesitation, and against the wishes of everyone around him, he gave the blind Brahmin his own two eyes.

Sakka, deeply moved by the depth of sacrifice he had just witnessed, could no longer keep up his disguise. He revealed himself in his true divine form, showering the king with blessings for his extraordinary generosity – and, as a final gift, restored Sivi's sight to him, more vivid and clear than it had ever been before.

Moral: True generosity holds nothing back, even the smallest and most personal thing one possesses – and such sacrifice is never made in vain.

38. The Deceitful Crow

A cunning crow once travelled to a small island inhabited entirely by birds, drawn there by the promise of an easy feast upon their unguarded eggs and fledglings. Rather than simply attacking, he devised a cleverer plan – standing solemnly on one leg with his beak held open, he declared to the gathered birds that he was a holy being who lived on nothing but the wind itself, seeking neither food nor harm from anyone.

The trusting island birds, moved by what appeared to be genuine piety, asked the “holy” crow if he might kindly watch over their nests while they flew off to gather food for their young. He agreed at once, with practised humility – and the moment they were gone, he descended on their unguarded nests, devouring most of their eggs and helpless young before their return.

When the parent birds came back to find their nests emptied, the island erupted in grief and confusion, every bird crying out over the loss of eggs and chicks – yet not one of them thought to suspect the seemingly holy crow who had promised to guard them so faithfully.

Day after day this deception continued, until the Bodhisattva – who ruled at that time as king of the birds – grew suspicious of the pattern and resolved to watch closely without revealing himself. His patience paid off: he caught the crow in the very act of raiding a nest, exposing the fraud before the whole island, and saw to it that the deceitful crow was punished exactly as his crimes deserved.

Moral: False piety may fool the trusting for a while, but sincere watchfulness eventually uncovers the truth – and deceit rarely escapes punishment forever.

39. The Virtuous King

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva was born as Ghata, a deeply virtuous and just king of Benaras. One day, Ghata witnessed one of his own ministers behaving disrespectfully toward a woman under his protection, and, unwilling to tolerate such conduct from anyone in his service, banished the man from the kingdom without hesitation.

Bitter and vengeful, the disgraced minister sought out King Vanka, ruler of a neighbouring state, and worked tirelessly to persuade him to invade Benaras. Vanka, convinced by the minister's schemes, eventually launched his attack – and in the fighting that followed, King Ghata's forces were defeated and Ghata himself taken prisoner.

Some time later, as King Vanka made his rounds through the prison where his captive was held, he came upon Ghata seated calmly in his cell, deep in peaceful meditation, entirely undisturbed by his imprisonment. Struck by such unexpected serenity, Vanka could not help but ask, “How is it that you remain so calm and at peace, even here, stripped of your kingdom and your freedom?”

Ghata considered the question thoughtfully before answering. “To grieve over what has already happened serves no purpose,” he said. “Grief cannot undo the sorrows of the past, and it offers no real hope for the future either. Why, then, should I allow it to master me and steal what peace I still have left?”

Vanka was deeply moved by these words – so moved, in fact, that he not only released Ghata from his imprisonment but restored his entire kingdom to him, humbled by the wisdom of a man he had defeated in battle but could never truly conquer.

Moral: Grief over what cannot be changed serves no purpose – a calm and steady heart, even in captivity, can win back far more than anger ever could.

40. The Elephant with Six Tusks

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva was born as Uposatha, king of the Chaddanta elephants, who were regarded as the noblest and highest-ranking of all elephant lineages. Uposatha's beauty was unmistakable – his body gleamed pure white, his face and feet were tinged with red, and six magnificent tusks curved from his jaw, each one shining like polished ivory. He made his home deep within a great forest, sharing his life with his two devoted wives, Mahasubhadda and Chullasubhadda.

One ordinary afternoon, after the three of them had bathed together in the forest's cool river, Uposatha fell into a playful, affectionate mood. Frolicking with his wives beneath the trees, he gave a great sal tree a light, teasing blow with his trunk, meaning nothing more by it than a moment's fun. The tree shuddered from the impact, and as its branches shook, a shower of soft, fragrant blossoms rained down directly onto Mahasubhadda, while at the very same moment, a scattering of dry twigs, brittle leaves, and biting red ants tumbled down onto Chullasubhadda instead.

It was, by any measure, the smallest and most unintentional of accidents – simple chance, nothing more. But Chullasubhadda did not see it that way. Convinced that her husband had deliberately favoured Mahasubhadda over her, she felt a deep and burning humiliation take root in her heart. No matter how earnestly Uposatha pleaded and explained that the whole matter had been nothing but chance, she refused to hear him, and in time, still nursing her wounded pride, she left him altogether.

The bitterness she carried away with her did not fade with distance or time. In due course, still weighed down by the resentment she had never let go of, Chullasubhadda died – a quiet and sorrowful ending to what had begun as nothing more than a careless, playful moment beneath a tree.

Moral: Even a small, careless hurt, left unaddressed, can settle into lasting resentment – a reminder that kindness in the smallest moments matters as much as grand gestures.

41. The Wise Stag

In one of his lives, the Bodhisattva led a herd of stags through the forest with quiet wisdom, and among his responsibilities was the guidance of his young nephew, Rahula, who had been entrusted to his care to learn the many small skills needed to survive in the wild. Rahula proved an eager and obedient student, following his uncle's careful instructions in everything he was taught.

One day, while the rest of the herd grazed peacefully in a forest clearing, Rahula grew thirsty and set off alone toward a distant lake, unaware that a hunter had laid a concealed trap directly across his path. Before he even understood what was happening, the snare closed tight around him. “Help! Help!” he cried out desperately – but no one was near enough to hear him.

In the panic of the moment, Rahula remembered a lesson his uncle had once given him for exactly such a situation. “A hunter never bothers to take away an animal he believes is already dead,” his uncle had told him, long before. Steadying himself, Rahula stopped struggling entirely, let his body go limp within the trap, and held his breath as still as death itself.

When the hunter returned to check his snare, he found what appeared to be a lifeless stag caught in the ropes, and, seeing no value in a carcass already gone cold, walked away without a second glance – leaving Rahula, very much alive, to work himself free once the danger had passed and make his way safely back to the herd, deeply grateful for the wisdom his uncle had once shared with him.

Moral: The lessons taught by an elder, however small they seem in the moment, can be exactly what saves a life when danger comes without warning.

42. A Good Disciple

Chudapanthaka, a young and earnest monk, along with his more gifted brother, had both become humble disciples of Sakyamuni Buddha. Where his brother possessed an easy gift for memorising sacred verses, absorbing whole passages after only a single hearing, Chudapanthaka struggled endlessly, unable to hold on to even the simplest teachings no matter how hard he tried.

Watching his younger brother's repeated, painful failures to memorise even a single verse, his brother finally lost patience and suggested, not unkindly but firmly, that perhaps the monastery was simply not the right place for him – that he should return home and accept a different kind of life. Heartbroken but unwilling to argue, Chudapanthaka gathered his few belongings and set off down the road toward home, his heart heavy with a sense of failure.

He had not gone far when he encountered the Buddha himself walking the same path. Sensing the young monk's distress, the Buddha stopped and spoke to him with unexpected gentleness. “There is no need to leave the monastery,” he said, smiling warmly. “Simply stand at the entrance each day with a rug, and help the monks clean the dust from their feet as they come and go. That alone is a service worth offering.”

Comforted and grateful for a path forward that did not demand the memory he lacked, Chudapanthaka returned to the monastery and did exactly as he had been told, day after day, without complaint. As the seasons passed, he came to realise something the Buddha had understood all along – that in quietly serving others through this small, humble act, he was practising a form of charity every bit as meaningful as any memorised verse. The realisation filled him with genuine joy, and in time, Chudapanthaka too became a true and devoted disciple of the Buddha, in his own quiet way.

Moral: A different kind of gift, humbly offered, can be just as valuable as brilliance in learning – true devotion is found in service, not only in cleverness.