Long before in a former life, Śākyamuni Buddha had been a young cultivator practicing in the mountains about thirty miles from the capital city where the King of Kalinga held court. One day the king decided to go hunting and called together a party of soldiers, ministers, and officials to accompany him. To complete the party he summoned the most beautiful concubines in the palace. Actually he could not bear to part with his women for even the duration of a hunting trip. He found them a most pleasant pastime.

The hunting grounds on the mountain were very large, and the King of Kalinga immediately set out in pursuit of big game, leaving the timid women behind to entertain themselves. As the women strolled around on the mountain, they happened upon the young bhikṣu who was only eighteen or nineteen years old and quite handsome, despite the fact that his hair had grown long and his clothes were tattered. When they first spied him they thought he was a kind of weird creature or a man-eating beast, and they panicked. “Look,” they gasped, clutching one another, “there’s a wild animal that looks like a man!”

“I am not a wild animal, I am a cultivator of the Way,” the young man assured them.

When the concubines heard that the creature could talk their curiosity was aroused, and they edged closer to speak with him.

“What does it mean to ‘cultivate the Way’?” they asked, for they had never been outside the confines of the palace, and so had never heard of such a thing. The young cultivator spoke dharma for them. Seeing what they had never seen before, and hearing what they had never heard before, soon they were enthralled and forgot everything even who and where they were.

Meanwhile the King of Kalinga returned from his expedition to discover that his palace concubines had wandered away. He set out to find them. Eventually he caught sight of them gathered around the strange-looking man. The king, bent on discovering who the man was and what he was doing with the concubines, crept silently towards them like a spy on a secret mission. When he got close he paused, listened to the young cultivator speaking dharma, and realized that the concubines were so enraptured they had not noticed the arrival of their king. Whereupon the King of Kalinga cleared his throat and challenged the young man, “What are you doing here?”

“I am cultivating the Way,” replied the bhikṣu.

“Have you attained the fruit of Arhatship in your cultivation?” asked the king.

“No.” said the young cultivator, “I have not certified to Arhatship.”

“Have you attained the third stage?” continued the king.

“No,” said the bhikṣu, “I have not certified to the third fruit.”

“I have heard there are people who live in the mountains and by eating a certain kind of fruit they attain immortality, but they still are not free of greed and desire. They still have lust in their minds. You are so young and you haven’t certified to any of the fruits of the Way. Do you give rise to thoughts of lust?” asked the king.

“I have not cut it off,” replied the bhikṣu.

With that reply the King of Kalinga became enraged. “If you haven’t cut off lust, then when you see my… these women… you see them like this… how can you be patient with the lust which arises in your mind?” he challenged.

“Although I have not cut off lust, I do not give rise to lustful thoughts. In my cultivation I contemplate the nine kinds of impurities.”

“Ha!” spit back the king, “you cultivate the contemplation of impurities. You are a cheat! What proof do I have that you do not lust after my women? What proof that you can bear your thoughts of lust?”

“I bear them,” replied the bhikṣu. “I can bear anything.”

“Oh you can, can you? Well, we shall see about that. First I will cut off your ear.” The king unsheathed his glistening sword, took hold of the bhikṣu’s ear, and lopped it off. By that time the ministers and officials had gathered around to see what had caused such commotion. They looked at the young cultivator who appeared totally unmoved and without pain, and they pleaded with the king, “Great King, do not take your sword to him. He is a great master. He must be a Bodhisattva. You must not take your sword to him.”

“How do you know he is a Bodhisattva? How do you know?” demanded their king, bristling with jealousy.

“Look at him,” said the officials, “you cut off his ear and he did nothing. He has not even flushed. He just sits there as if nothing had happened.”

“How do you know that he feels as if nothing had happened? I wager in his mind he hates me. I shall try him out again.” He positioned his sword and neatly sliced off the bhikṣu’s nose. “Are you angry?”

“I am not angry,” replied the bhikṣu.

“You aren’t? It is more likely that you are a liar as well as a cheat. Perhaps you can cheat these women, but you can’t cheat me. I shall cut off your hand and see what you do. Can you bear it?” his voice shook as he brought down the sword again.

“It is all the same to me,” said the bhikṣu.

“All right, if it is all the same, then I shall cut off your other hand,” which he did, saying with barely controlled rage, “still not angry? Are you enraged yet?”

“No, I am not enraged,” said the bhikṣu.

“I don’t believe you. Nobody could stand to have both hands cut off and not get angry. You are certainly a freak,” he said as he cut off one of the bhikṣu’s legs. “Still not angry?”

The king chopped away at the other leg. “Angry?” he nearly screamed once more.

The maimed bhikṣu continued to sit as before, although now both his ears, his nose, both his hands and both legs were totally severed from his body. “I am not angry,” he said once again.

But by then the Four Great Heaven Kings were angry and cursing the king. They sent down a rain of hail stones the size of dumplings. The hail beat down so violently that a section of the mountain near the party fell away and went roaring down the slopes. The king froze with fear upon realizing his mistake. He knelt before the earless, noseless, handless, legless bhikṣu and begged forgiveness. “I was wrong, I was wrong,” he cried in terror. “Heaven is punishing me. Do not be angry, please do not be angry.”

“I have not become angry,” said the bhikṣu.

“That is not true,” cried the panic-stricken king. “If you are not angry, why is heaven punishing me?” He still thought the bhikṣu had called down a curse on him.

“I can prove that I have not become angry,” said the bhikṣu. “If I have, then the extremities of my body will not mend. But if I have not become angry, then my hands, legs, ears, and nose will grow hack the way they were.” No sooner had he finished speaking then his legs, hands, ears, and nose perfectly rejoined the trunk of his body. When he was whole again the bhikṣu made a solemn dedication to the king, “Upon realizing Buddhahood I will take you across first.”

Later when the young cultivator was reborn as a young prince who realized the Way and became Śākyamuni Buddha, he first went to the Deer Park to take across the former king of Kalinga, the Venerable Ājñātakauṇḍinya.

After hearing that account, some people may say, “I think I shall find a bhikṣu who practices patience in the mountains and cut off his ears, nose, hands, and legs. Then he will make the vow to take me across when he first realizes Buddhahood.” That plan would be fine if you were assured of meeting a cultivator with a compassionate, patient mind like Śākyamuni Buddha’s. However, if the cultivator gave rise to one thought of anger while you were slicing away at him, then you would fall into the unintermittent hells. So you had better think twice before attempting that method. Besides, you are not a king. If you were a king you might manage it.

Śākyamuni Buddha referred to his encounter with the King of Kalinga at that point in order to remind Subhūti that he understood the paramita of patience. “When the King of Kalinga dismembered my body, I had no mark of self, no mark of others, no mark of living beings and no mark of a life.”