The golden light of evening lay over the new houses built along the shore of the city of Benares. One of them belonged to a wealthy merchant. For more than ten years he had again and again taken to the open sea, sailing to distant, unfamiliar shores in the lands of the Arabs, meeting peoples gentle and fierce alike. Each voyage brought him great profit, until he became one of the richest men in the city.
His wife was a capable, devoted woman, though her eyes always carried a shadow of worry and sorrow. Even her husband's homecoming, laden with so many precious goods, could never quite bring her joy, for already she saw ahead the day of his next departure, the separation soon to come.
The couple had a son together. She gave him a very long name, Métracanyaca. The child brought her some measure of comfort through the long stretches when her husband was away.
Métracanyaca was six years old. One winter night, his mother lay sleepless, for the day of his father's return was drawing near. Toward dawn, a wind rose suddenly and grew stronger by the moment. The sea roared beneath it. The same old fears that had risen in her so many times before stirred once again. By evening the fleet still had not returned. People went down to the shore to watch and wait.
As night drew close, a single sail appeared. Of the dozen or so ships that had set out, only one returned, and it was not her husband's. They brought her the terrible news: her husband's ship had gone down. She fainted; the greatest sorrow of her life etched itself forever into the lines of her face. And all the hope that remained to her, she now poured entirely into Métra's life.
Métra grew up sturdier than other boys, his eyes dark and bright, always fixed on the far distance, dreaming of a wandering life. His mother had sensed this in him long before, and did all she could to counsel him against it. Sometimes he would ask her: “Mother, what trade did my father follow, in his day?” The question cost her many sleepless nights. Each time, she saw again her own grief on that winter evening, years before. She told him a lie: “Your father, in his day, traded goods within the country.” And so he began to dream of becoming a traveling merchant himself, within the country.
Five years later, Métra had grown into a sturdy young man, and he took up trading within the country. On his first venture he earned four gold pieces — no small success for one still so inexperienced. He brought all four coins home to his mother and asked her to give them in offering to the śramaṇas and brahmins, and to the poor and the beggars. His mother believed he had settled into the trade and found contentment in it.
But one day he came home deeply downcast. He wanted to change his trade, having heard that his father had once dealt in perfumes. His mother gave in to him. The next day he opened a perfume shop in the city. This time he earned eight coins, better than before, but the modest trade of selling perfume held no real interest for him. And soon someone told him that his father had once dealt in jewelry as well. So once again he brought his eight coins home to his mother, already resolved to give up the perfume trade.
He turned to the jewelry trade. His business flourished, rivaling the great goldsmith shops of the city. In his first month he earned sixteen coins; the next, thirty-two — truly considerable sums. He brought them home to his mother and asked her, as before, to use them in works of merit. But this trade kept him rooted in one place, and it began to chafe at him. His world felt cramped, his horizon closed in. Then one day a fellow jeweler said to him: “Why don't you take up your father's trade of seafaring, instead of clinging to this petty, confined business of selling trinkets?” The remark struck exactly where it hurt... So the very next day, Métra sold off all the gold he had left and gathered together a considerable sum of capital. The open sea, with its endless waves and its unknown shores, was calling to him. His mind was made up; he went to his mother and said: “Mother, was my father not once a seafarer? Let me follow in his trade, and go trade beyond the sea.”
His mother was thunderstruck. She had already sensed this longing in her son. She had noticed his gaze fixed always on the far horizon, as if straining to reach the other shore of the ocean. She had noticed how he hungered after the life of the sailors who arrived on ships from distant lands. She wished, too, to see him fulfilled — but the memory of his father's departure without return drove her to try everything to hold him back: “Yes, Métra, it is true — your father was once a seafarer, but he perished, struck down by a storm on the open sea. I have already suffered so much. Now I have only you left; how could you bear to leave your mother for the far edges of the world? I would wither away and die of grief.”
Though moved, Métra had already decided. That very evening he sent a man through the streets of Benares, ringing a bell and calling out: “Honored merchants! Métra is about to set out on a distant trading voyage — let any who wish to carry their goods overseas join him.”
Métra's mother pleaded with him again and again, but he would not change his mind. On the day of departure, five hundred merchants set out with him on this voyage. His mother, in the depths of her love for her son, was overwhelmed with grief — for this leave-taking so closely mirrored his father's departure, years before. She sank down, clasped her son's feet, and wept. Everyone was moved. Métra sat still for a moment, but then rose suddenly, pulled his feet free, and stepped over his mother's bowed head. He walked straight down to the ship without a backward glance. Slowly his mother rose to her feet, and through her tears she murmured softly: “My child... I pray that you pass safely through every danger. I pray that you be spared the retribution owed for stepping over your mother's head, my child.”
The fleet sailed on through the waves for three full days. On the fourth, the sky changed abruptly, and a fierce wind rose. Gust after gust warned of a great storm to come. Everyone grew anxious and fought to hold their course. But what had to happen, happened: the great storm tore the whole fleet apart.
Clinging to a plank, Métra drifted by chance to an unfamiliar shore. Slowly he gathered his senses and made his way to a city — this was the city of Ramana. The young man from Benares was welcomed warmly. Four beautiful maidens came out to greet him, each with a gold coin gleaming on her breast, exactly like the gold coin he had once given his mother. The maidens said to him: “Welcome, Métra — this is our palace. Here is every pleasure this world has to offer. Come, share our joy with us.” Métra accepted. He lived there in complete material abundance, as though reaping merit he had earned in days gone by; and yet some unseen force seemed to press him onward. A restlessness took hold of him, and he set out again, south. He came to the city of Sadamaham, where eight lovely young maidens came to greet him, each with a gold coin gleaming on her breast, just like the one he had given his mother. These maidens, too, spoke to him with the same gentle words as those before. He accepted their invitation to stay, and again lived there in full material abundance, as though reaping the merit of former deeds. But then, restless once more, he set out again, south.
He came to the city of Nandana. Sixteen lovely maidens came to greet him, each with a gold coin gleaming on her breast, just as before. They gently invited him to stay, and cared for him as the others had. Again he lived in full material abundance, as though reaping the merit of former deeds. But before long, he set out once more, southward.
He came to the city of Brahmottora. Thirty-two lovely maidens greeted him, each with a gold coin gleaming on her breast, just as before. He was invited to stay and enjoy the pleasures of the city. But here, many things gave him pause: why should he, a son guilty toward his mother, have been granted such happiness, again and again? Was it not because, in days past, he had given his mother those sums of four, eight, sixteen, and thirty-two coins, for works of charity? And yet the happiness he had already received now seemed to him far too much. He could not remain here any longer. Once more he wished to journey south, though the maidens did everything in their power to dissuade him.
This time he journeyed very far. He came to a wall of iron. He passed through the gate, and it closed shut behind him. He walked on still, and before long he came upon a man of great size, wearing on his head a ring of burning red iron. Flames roared from it, and blood mixed with pus streamed down over his head and into his mouth, which he licked away as it fell. Métra drew near and asked:
- Who are you? Why do you suffer such a cruel and agonizing punishment?
The man, holding back his pain, gazed at him a moment, then answered:
- I am one who caused his own mother suffering, and so I must bear this retribution. I shall go on bearing it until another comes, one who has likewise done evil and caused his mother suffering, to pass this way and take my place.
Métra's own sinful past rose up clearly before his mind. Métra had stepped over his mother's head; that unfilial son now stood right here, deserving the harshest punishment of all. The instant this thought crossed his mind, the burning iron ring flew across and clamped itself upon his own head. Métra looked at the other man, now whole and strong again, the wound on his head fully healed, and asked:
- How long must I bear this ring of fire?
The other answered:
- You must bear this punishment for lifetime after lifetime, until someone else, guilty of causing his mother suffering as you have, comes to take your place. Métra suffered beyond measure. The fire seared his flesh piece by piece; his face felt as though it were being carved away, vein by vein, nerve by nerve, each part in turn going numb. And yet Métra accepted this punishment willingly. He thought: “Must there truly be another who wrongs his mother, only to come and suffer in my place? No — it must not be so! O all you living beings — let none of you ever conceive the thought of causing your own mother pain. Let none of you ever bring tears streaming from your mother's eyes on your account.”
And then Métracanyaca made this vow: “I vow to wear this ring forever, and to bear this suffering in the place of all living beings.”
Métracanyaca's vow overflowed with a boundless, all-embracing love. That sincere vow released Métra at once from the bonds of his own wrongdoing, and the ring of fire lifted from his head and rose into the empty air, restoring to Métra a life of peace.
“Gentle mother, accept this bow from your unfilial child,
who so many times in years gone by has caused you sorrow,
who so many times has made your tears fall like rain —
no number of bows could ever repay a mother's grace.”
Quảng Huệ