Bhisa Jataka

The Buddha told this story, No. 488 of the Jataka collection, at Jetavana monastery concerning a monk who had abandoned his training. Asked why he had backslid, the monk answered simply, "For sin's sake, Sir." Rather than condemn him outright, the Buddha reminded the gathering that even the wise of ancient times, once they had taken up the renunciant life, had bound themselves with solemn oaths against the very temptations this monk had failed to resist, and he told the old tale to show what such resolve once looked like.

Long ago, when Brahmadatta ruled in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born as Maha-Kancana, eldest son of an immensely wealthy brahmin family possessing eighty crores of treasure. He had six younger brothers, the eldest of them named Upa-Kancana, and a youngest sister, Kancanadevi. The family lacked for nothing, yet from early in his life Maha-Kancana felt no pull toward the pleasures his wealth could buy.

When he came of age, his parents proposed finding him a suitable bride from a good family so that he might establish his own household, as was expected of a son in his position. Maha-Kancana refused outright. He told them that the three kinds of existence seemed to him as terrible as raging fires, as confining as a prison bound in chains, and as repulsive as a dunghill, and that he had never once felt desire for such a life, not even in his dreams.

When his parents died, Maha-Kancana looked at the vast fortune he had inherited and saw clearly how little it was worth holding onto. He gave away every bit of it in alms to the poor and resolved to renounce the world entirely. His six brothers, his sister Kancanadevi, a devoted manservant, a maidservant, and a companion all chose to join him, and together this whole household of eight ascetics, with two further servants among them, withdrew into the Himalayan wilderness and settled near a lake thick with lotus flowers, known as Candapukkhara.

Each of them lived apart in a separate leaf-hut and devoted the days to meditation, speaking as little as possible so as not to disturb one another's concentration. Each day, whichever ascetic's turn it was gathered the fibrous lotus roots, called bhisa, that grew in the lake, divided them into portions, set aside the eldest brother's share, and laid them upon a flat stone. Each hermit came in turn, in silence, took his portion, and withdrew to eat alone. It was a life of exact, undemanding routine, sustained by nothing more than roots and water and the discipline each had chosen.

Watching this unbroken harmony from his heavenly seat, Sakka, king of the gods, wondered whether their virtue ran as deep as it appeared or whether it had simply never been tested by hardship. To find out, he used his power to make Maha-Kancana's portion of lotus roots vanish from the stone for three days running, leaving nothing in its place.

On the first day, finding no share set aside for him, Maha-Kancana assumed it had simply been forgotten and said nothing. On the second day he wondered whether the fault lay in himself, or whether the omission was meant to remind him of humility, and again he went without food, keeping the same patience and stillness of mind he brought to every other part of his practice. On the third day he resolved to make peace if he had given offence, and sounded the gong to call the community together.

When the hermits gathered, each of those who had prepared the food declared that he had set aside the eldest brother's share. Maha-Kancana explained that his food had disappeared for three consecutive days, and the whole community was troubled, for it meant that someone among them, or some stranger, had taken a brother's food, a grave matter in a hermitage built entirely on trust.

To clear their names and settle the matter, each hermit in turn made a solemn declaration of truth. What made these oaths remarkable was their shape: rather than wishing ordinary misfortune upon themselves if they were guilty, each one invoked precisely the worldly prizes an ascetic had already renounced. Upa-Kancana, the first to rise, asked leave to clear himself and swore that if he had taken the roots, let horses and cattle be his, let silver and gold be his, let a loving wife and many children be his, naming family and wealth as a punishment rather than a blessing. A friendly ascetic swore that if guilty, let him hold a village by Sakka's own gift and die with his passions wholly uncontrolled. The sister, Kancanadevi, swore that if she were guilty, let her be the fairest of all women, and let the monarch of the whole world choose her above ten thousand others. To hearts that had already tasted the peace of renunciation, a return to household desire was the deepest ruin imaginable.

So complete was the hermitage's reputation for purity that even a wandering elephant, a monkey who lived nearby, and a tree-spirit who watched over the forest came forward and swore their own innocence in the same terms, unwilling to let suspicion rest even briefly on anyone connected to that quiet community.

Moved by the depth of conviction behind every oath, Sakka could remain concealed no longer. He appeared before them in radiant light, set the missing portion of lotus roots down at Maha-Kancana's feet, and confessed that he himself had taken them, only to test whether such renowned sages were truly as pure as their reputation claimed. He declared plainly that he now saw they were indeed sages, pure and good, with nothing more to prove.

Maha-Kancana did not simply accept the apology in silence. He told Sakka directly that he and his companions were not performers set upon this earth for a god's entertainment, nor were they Sakka's kinsmen or friends to be tested at his pleasure. He went on to explain why desire itself, not any single theft, was the real danger worth fearing: desire strikes like a deadly blow and binds like a chain, and in it lies both misery and constant fear, driving even kings to commit terrible deeds that lead them down to ruin. Sages renounced such things, he said, precisely because they understood this suffering at its root.

Humbled, Sakka made his peace with the hermits, and all eight of them, through continued meditation, went on to develop deep mystical absorption and attained the faculties that destined them for rebirth in the Brahma realm. When the Buddha finished the telling, he revealed who each figure in the tale had been. The seven brothers were Sariputta, Moggallana, Punna, Kassapa, Anuruddha, Ananda, and the Buddha himself. Among the rest, Uppalavanna was the sister, Khujjuttara was the maidservant, Satagira was the tree-spirit, the householder Citta was the manservant, Pareleyya was the elephant, Madhuvasettha was the monkey, and Kaludayi was Sakka. Hearing this teaching, the monk who had abandoned his vows attained the fruit of the first path then and there.

What the Bhisa Jataka preserves is not a tale about a theft but about what genuine renunciation looks like under pressure: patience through three days of unexplained hunger, oaths that treat wealth and family as punishments rather than prizes, and a rebuke delivered to a god without fear, because the hermits understood exactly where true danger lay. No. 488 endures as a measure for anyone who has ever claimed to have given something up only to discover, like the backsliding monk at Jetavana, how much weaker that claim turns out to be when no one is testing it.