Thus have I heard: at one time the Lord was staying near Aṅguttarāpa. Āpaṇa was the name of a market town in Aṅguttarāpa. Then the Lord, having dressed in the morning, taking his bowl and robe, entered Āpaṇa for almsfood. When he had walked for alms-food and was returning from the alms-gathering after the meal, he approached a forest-thicket for the day-sojourn. When he had plunged into that forest-thicket, he sat down at the root of a tree for the day-sojourn.

And the venerable Udāyin also, having dressed in the morning, and taking his bowl and robe, entered Āpaṇa for almsfood. When he had walked for almsfood and was returning from the almsgathering after the meal, he approached that same forest-thicket for the day-sojourn. When he had plunged into that forest-thicket, he sat down at the root of a tree for the day-sojourn.

Then while the venerable Udāyin was in private seclusion a reasoning arose in his mind thus: “Indeed our Lord is a remover of many painful things, indeed our Lord is a bringer of many pleasant things. Indeed our Lord is a remover of many unskilled things, indeed our Lord is a bringer of many skilled things.”

Then the venerable Udāyin, emerging from his seclusion towards evening, approached the Lord; having approached, having greeted the Lord, he sat down at a respectful distance. As he was sitting down at a respectful distance, the venerable Udāyin spoke thus to the Lord: “While I, revered sir, was in private seclusion, a reasoning arose in my mind thus: ‘Indeed our Lord is a remover of many painful things, indeed our Lord is a bringer of many pleasant things. Indeed our Lord is a remover of many unskilled things, indeed our Lord is a bringer of many skilled things.’

We, revered sir, used to eat in the evening and in the morning and during the day—at a wrong time. Revered sir, the Lord at that time addressed the monks, saying: ‘Please do you, monks, give up eating at this wrong time, during the day.’ I was depressed because of this, revered sir, I was sorry, and thought: ‘The Lord speaks of our giving up that sumptuous food, solid and soft, which the believing householders give us during the day—at the wrong time, and the Well-farer speaks of our rejecting it.’ Those of us, revered sir, who look to the Lord with regard and respect and modesty and fear of blame, gave up such food as this (given) during the day, at the wrong time.

Then we, revered sir, used to eat in the evening as well as in the morning. It was at this time that the Lord addressed the monks, saying: ‘Please do you, monks, give up eating at this wrong time, during the night.’ I was depressed because of this, revered sir, I was sorry, and thought: ‘The Lord speaks of our giving up that which is reckoned as the more sumptuous of these two meals, and the Well-farer speaks of our rejecting it.’

Once upon a time, revered sir, a certain man, having obtained some curry during the day, spoke thus: ‘Come, let us put this aside, and in the evening we will enjoy it all together.’ All cooking, revered sir, is at night, there is little during the day. But those of us, revered sir, who look to the Lord with regard and respect and modesty and fear of blame, gave up such food as this (given) at night, at the wrong time.

Once upon a time, revered sir, when the monks were walking for almsfood in the dense darkness of the night, they would walk into a pool at the entrance to a village, and they would fall into the dirty pool near the village, and they would blunder into a thorny hedge, and they would blunder into a sleeping cow, and they would meet with young men, both those who had committed a crime and those who had not, and women would solicit them against true Dhamma.

Once upon a time I, revered sir, used to walk for almsfood in the dense darkness of the night, and a certain woman saw me during a lightning flash as she was washing a bowl, and terrified at seeing me, she uttered a scream of horror: ‘How terrible for me, indeed there is a demon after me.’ This said, I, revered sir, said to this woman: ‘Sister, I am not a demon, I am a monk standing for almsfood.’ She said, ‘The monk's father must be dead, the monk's mother must be dead—it were better for you, monk, to have your belly cut out with a sharp butcher's knife than to walk for almsfood for the sake of your belly in the dense darkness of the night.’ When I remember this, revered sir, it occurs to me: ‘Indeed our Lord is a remover of many painful things, indeed our Lord is a bringer of many pleasant things, indeed our Lord is a remover of many unskilled things, indeed our Lord is a bringer of many skilled things.’

“But even so, Udāyin, some foolish persons here, on being told by me: ‘Give this up,’ speak thus: ‘But what of this trifling insignificant matter? This recluse lays too much emphasis on (exertion).’ But they do not give it up and they cause dissatisfaction to be nursed against me and against those monks who desire the training. This becomes for them, Udāyin, a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood.

Udāyin, as a quail, a little hen bird, because she is caught in a trap of creepers, comes to slaughter there, or to captivity or dying; so that, Udāyin, if any one should say: ‘That quail, a little hen bird, because she is caught in a trap of creepers, comes to slaughter there, or to captivity, or dying, yet for her it is a bond of no strength, a weak bond, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond’—would anyone speaking thus, Udāyin, be speaking rightly?” “No, revered sir. That quail, a little hen bird, revered sir, because she is caught in a trap of creepers, comes to slaughter there, or to captivity, or dying, since for her it is a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood.”

“Even so, Udāyin, some foolish persons here, on being told by me, ‘Give this up,’ speak thus: ‘But what of this trifling insignificant matter! This recluse lays too much emphasis on (exertion),’ and they do not give it up and they cause dissatisfaction to be nursed against me and against those monks who desire the training. This is for them, Udāyin, a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood.

But, Udāyin, some young men of family here, on being told by me, ‘Give this up,’ speak thus: ‘But what of this trifling insignificant matter to be given up and of whose giving up the Lord speaks to us, and of whose rejection the Well-farer speaks to us?’ And they give it up and they do not cause dissatisfaction to be nursed against me, or against those monks who desire the training. These, giving that up, are unconcerned, unruffled, dependent on others, with a mind become as a wild creature's. This for them, Udāyin, is a bond of no strength, a weak bond, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond.

Udāyin, it is like a king's bull-elephant whose tusks are as long as a plough-pole, who is massive, finely bred, whose home is the battle-field and who, if bound with a stout leather bond, having easily twisted his body, having burst those bonds tearing them asunder, goes away as he pleases. Now, Udāyin, if anyone should speak thus: ‘That king's bull-elephant whose tusks are as long as a plough-pole, who is massive, finely bred, whose home is the battle-field and who, if bound with a stout leather bond, having easily twisted his body, having burst those bonds tearing them asunder, goes away as he pleases; yet for him it was a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood’—would anyone speaking thus, Udāyin, be speaking rightly?” “No, revered sir. That king's bull-elephant, revered sir, whose tusks are as long as a plough-pole, who is massive, finely bred, whose home is the battle-field and who, if bound with a stout leather bond, having easily twisted his body, having burst those bonds tearing them asunder, goes away as he pleases; because for him it is a bond of no strength, a weak bond, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond.”

“Even so, Udāyin, some young men of family here, on being told by me, ‘Give this up,’ speak thus: ‘But what of this trifling insignificant matter to be given up and of whose giving up the Lord speaks to us and of whose rejection the Well-farer speaks to us?” And they give it up and they do not cause dissatisfaction to be nursed against me, or against those monks who desire the training. These, giving that up, are unconcerned, unruffled, dependent on others, with a mind become as a wild creature's. This for them, Udāyin, is a weak bond, a bond of no strength, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond.

And, Udāyin, it is like a man, poor, needy, destitute, who has one little tumbledown hovel, open to the crows, unlovely to see, one tumbledown pallet, unlovely to see, his grain and store-room in one jar, unlovely to see, his one wife unlovely to see. He might see a monk in a monastery, his hands and feet properly washed, who, after eating a delicious meal, was sitting in the cool shade intent on the higher thought.

It might occur to him: ‘Indeed, recluseship is pleasant, indeed recluseship is healthy. Suppose that I, having cut off my hair and beard, having donned saffron robes, should go forth from home into homelessness?’ But he might not be able to bring himself to give up his one little tumbledown hovel open to the crows, unlovely to see, one tumbledown pallet, unlovely to see, his grain and store-room in one jar, unlovely to see, his one wife unlovely to see, and to go forth from home into homelessness, having cut off his hair and beard and having donned saffron robes.

Now, Udāyin, if anyone should speak thus: ‘That man, bound by those bonds is unable, giving up his one little tumbledown hovel open to the crows, unlovely to see, one tumbledown pallet, unlovely to see, his grain and store-room in one jar, unlovely to see, his one wife unlovely to see, to go forth from home into homelessness, having cut off his hair and beard and having donned saffron robes, because for him it is a bond of no strength, a weak bond, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond—would anyone speaking thus, Udāyin, be speaking rightly?” “No, revered sir. That man, bound by those bonds, is not able to give up his one little tumbledown hovel open to the crows, unlovely to see, one tumbledown pallet, unlovely to see, his grain and store-room in one jar, unlovely to see, his one wife unlovely to see, to go forth from home into homelessness, having cut off his hair and beard and having donned saffron robes, because for him it is a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood.”

“Even so, Udāyin, some foolish persons here, on being told by me, ‘Give this up,’ speak thus: ‘But what of this trifling insignificant matter? This recluse lays too much emphasis on (exertion).’ And they do not give it up and they cause dissatisfaction to be nursed against me and against those monks who desire the training. This is for them, Udāyin, a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood.

“And, Udāyin, it is like a householder or his son, rich, of great wealth, of great possessions, with a mass of abundant gold ornaments, a mass of abundant corn, a mass of abundant fields, with a mass of abundant raiment, with a mass of abundant wives, a mass of abundant men slaves, a mass of abundant women slaves. He might see a monk in a monastery, his hands and feet properly washed, who, after eating a delicious meal, was sitting in the cool shade intent on the higher thought. It might occur to him: ‘Indeed recluseship is pleasant, indeed recluseship is healthy. Suppose that I, having cut off my hair and beard, having donned saffron robes, should go forth from home into homelessness?’ And he might be able to bring himself to give up his mass of abundant gold ornaments, his mass of abundant corn, a mass of abundant fields, with a mass of abundant raiment, with a mass of abundant wives, a mass of abundant men slaves, a mass of abundant women slaves and to go forth from home into homelessness, having cut off his hair and beard and having donned saffron robes.

If anyone should speak thus, Udāyin: ‘That householder or his son, bound by those bonds, is able to give up his mass of abundant gold ornaments, his mass of abundant corn, a mass of abundant fields, with a mass of abundant raiment, with a mass of abundant wives, a mass of abundant men slaves, a mass of abundant women slaves and having cut off his hair and beard and having donned saffron robes, to go forth from home into homelessness, because for him it was a strong bond, a stout bond, a solid bond, a bond that does not rot away, a thick log of wood’—would any one speaking thus, Udāyin, be speaking rightly?” “No, revered sir. That householder or householder's son, revered sir, bound by those bonds, is able to give up his mass of abundant gold ornaments, his mass of abundant corn, a mass of abundant fields, with a mass of abundant raiment, with a mass of abundant wives, a mass of abundant men slaves, a mass of abundant women slaves and having cut off his hair and beard and having donned saffron robes, to go forth from home into homelessness, because for him that was a bond of no strength, a weak bond, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond.”

“Even so, Udāyin, some young men of family here, on being told by me, ‘Give this up,’ speak thus: ‘But what of this trifling insignificant matter to be given up and of whose giving up the Lord speaks to us and of whose rejection the Well-farer speaks to us? And they give it up and they do not cause dissatisfaction to be nursed against me or against those monks who desire the training. These, giving that up, are unconcerned, unruffled, dependent on others, with a mind become as a wild creature's. This for them, Udāyin, is a bond of no strength, a weak bond, a bond that rots away, a pithless bond.

Udāyin, these four types of persons are found existing in the world. What four? [1] As to this, Udāyin, a certain person is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging. But while he is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging, memories and thoughts belonging to clinging beset him. He gives in to them, he does not get rid of them, he does not dispel them, he does not make an end of them, he does not send them to destruction. I, Udāyin, say that this person is fettered, not unfettered. What is the reason for this? Differences in faculties in this person are known to me, Udāyin. [2] And here, Udāyin, some person is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging. But while he is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging, memories and thoughts belonging to clinging beset him. He does not give in to them, he gets rid of them, he dispels them, he makes an end of them, he sends them to destruction. But I say that this person is also fettered, Udāyin, not unfettered. What is the reason for this? Differences in faculties in this person are known to me, Udāyin. [3] And some person here, Udāyin, is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging. While he is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging, from confusion in mindfulness memories and thoughts belonging to clinging at times beset him. Slow, Udāyin, is the arising of mindfulness, and then he gets rid of it quickly, dispels it, makes an end of it, sends it to destruction. Udāyin, it is as if a man were to let two or three drops of water fall into an iron pot that had been heated all day long. Slow, Udāyin, is the falling of the drops of water, but they would be quickly destroyed and consumed. [4] Even so, Udāyin, some person here is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging. While he is faring along towards the getting rid of clinging, towards the casting out of clinging, from confusion in mindfulness memories and thoughts belonging to clinging at times beset him. Slow, Udāyin, is the arising of mindfulness, and then he gets rid of it quickly, dispels it, makes an end of it, sends it to destruction. I, Udāyin, say that this person is also fettered, not unfettered. What is the reason for this? Differences in faculties in this person are known to me, Udāyin.

But some person here, Udāyin, thinking, ‘Clinging is the root of anguish,’ and having understood it so, he is without clinging, freed by the destruction of clinging. I, Udāyin, say that this person is unfettered, not fettered. What is the reason for this? Differences in faculties in this person are known to me, Udāyin.

There are these five strands of sense-pleasures, Udāyin. What five? What are the five? Material shapes cognisable by the eye, agreeable, pleasant, liked, enticing, connected with sensual pleasures, alluring. Sounds cognisable by the ear, agreeable, pleasant, liked, enticing, connected with sensual pleasures, alluring. Smells cognisable by the nose, agreeable, pleasant, liked, enticing, connected with sensual pleasures, alluring. Tastes cognisable by the tongue, agreeable, pleasant, liked, enticing, connected with sensual pleasures, alluring. Touches cognisable by the body, agreeable, pleasant, liked, enticing, connected with sensual pleasures, alluring. These, Udāyin, are the five strands of sense-pleasures.

Whatever happiness, whatever joy, Udāyin, arises in consequence of these five strands of sense-pleasures, it is called a happiness of sense-pleasures that is a vile happiness, the happiness of an average person, an unariyan happiness. It should not be pursued, developed or made much of. I say of this happiness, that it is to be feared.

In this connection, Udāyin, a monk, aloof from the pleasures of the senses, aloof from unskilled states of mind, enters and abides in the first meditation which is accompanied by initial thought and discursive thought, is born of aloofness, and is rapturous and joyful.

And again, monks, a monk, by allaying initial and discursive thought, his mind subjectively tranquillised and fixed on one point, enters on and abides in the second meditation which is devoid of initial and discursive thought, is born of concentration and is rapturous and joyful.

And again, monks, a monk, by the fading out of rapture, dwells with equanimity, attentive and clearly conscious, and experiences in his person that joy of which the ariyans say: ‘Joyful lives he who has equanimity and is mindful,’ and he enters on and abides in the third meditation.

And again, monks, a monk by getting rid of joy, by getting rid of anguish, by the going down of his former pleasures and sorrows, enters on and abides in the fourth meditation which has neither anguish nor joy, and which is entirely purified by equanimity and mindfulness.

This is called the happiness of renunciation, the happiness of aloofness, the happiness of tranquillity, the happiness of self-awakening. It should be pursued, developed and made much of. I say of this happiness that it is not to be feared.

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, aloof from the pleasures of the senses, aloof from unskilled states of mind, enters and abides in the first meditation, which is accompanied by initial thought and discursive thought, is born of aloofness, and is rapturous and joyful. I, Udāyin, say that this is in the unstable. And what is in the unstable there? That very initial and discursive thought that is not stopped there—this is in the unstable there.

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by allaying initial and discursive thought, his mind subjectively tranquillised and fixed on one point, enters on and abides in the second meditation which is devoid of initial and discursive thought, is born of concentration and is rapturous and joyful. I, Udāyin, say that this too is in the unstable. And what is in the unstable there? That very rapture and joy that are not stopped there—these are in the unstable there.

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by the fading out of rapture, dwells with equanimity, attentive and clearly conscious, and experiences in his person that joy of which the ariyans say: ‘Joyful lives he who has equanimity and is mindful,’ and he enters on and abides in the third meditation. I, Udāyin, say that this too is in the unstable. And what is in the unstable there? That very happiness in equanimity that is not stopped there—this is in the unstable there.

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by getting rid of joy, by getting rid of anguish, by the going down of his former pleasures and sorrows, enters on and abides in the fourth meditation which has neither anguish nor joy, and which is entirely purified by equanimity and mindfulness. I, Udāyin, say that this is in the stable.

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, aloof from the pleasures of the senses, aloof from unskilled states of mind, enters and abides in the first meditation, which is accompanied by initial thought and discursive thought, is born of aloofness, and is rapturous and joyful. I, Udāyin, say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by allaying initial and discursive thought, his mind subjectively tranquillised and fixed on one point, enters on and abides in the second meditation which is devoid of initial and discursive thought, is born of concentration and is rapturous and joyful. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by the fading out of rapture, dwells with equanimity, attentive and clearly conscious, and experiences in his person that joy of which the ariyans say: ‘Joyful lives he who has equanimity and is mindful,’ and he enters on and abides in the third meditation. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by getting rid of happiness, by getting rid of anguish, by the going down of his former pleasures and sorrows, enters on and abides in the fourth meditation which has neither anguish nor joy, and which is entirely purified by equanimity and mindfulness. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by wholly transcending perception of material shapes, by the going down of perception of sensory reactions, by not attending to perception of variety, thinking: ‘Ether is unending,’ enters on and abides in the plane of infinite ether. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by wholly transcending the plane of infinite ether, thinking: ‘Consciousness is unending,’ enters on and abides in the plane of infinite consciousness. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by wholly transcending the plane of infinite consciousness, thinking: ‘There is not anything,’ enters on and abides in the plane of no-thing. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by wholly transcending the plane of no-thing, enters on and abides in the plane of neither-perception-nor-non-perception. This is its transcending. But I, Udāyin, again say, ‘This is not enough,’ I say, ‘Get rid of it,’ I say, ‘Transcend it.’ And what, Udāyin, is its transcending?

As to this, Udāyin, a monk, by wholly transcending the plane of neither-perception-nor-non-perception, enters on and abides in the stopping of perception and feeling. This is its transcending. It is for this that I, Udāyin, speak even of the getting rid of the plane of neither-perception-nor non-perception.

Now do you, Udāyin, see any fetter, minute or massive, of the getting rid of which I have not spoken to you?” “No, revered sir.”

Thus spoke the Lord. Delighted, the venerable Udāyin rejoiced in what the Lord had said.

Discourse on the Simile of the Quail: The Sixth