The Richest Man Who Suffered the Most

In the bustling city of Savatthi, there stood a large house whose doors were always locked and bolted, silent as a tomb. People whispered that the owner was a moneylender — a banker of sorts — the wealthiest man in the city, yet hardly anyone had ever seen him step outside. When he did have to go out, he always wore clothes patched over and over, his hair tangled and unkempt, his face gaunt and hollow. The servants in his household were sickly and famished, no different from debt-slaves under a harsh master.

People said this moneylender lived in a most peculiar way. His kitchen had two pots of rice: one with fresh rice and one with old. Whenever there was leftover rice from the day before, he would have the servants reheat and eat that first, never daring to touch the fresh pot. His fine clothes were locked away in a chest, for he feared wearing them would wear them out, and so he went about in rags. Sometimes only when a mouse gnawed a hole in a new garment would he regretfully take it out to wear. His hired workers never received a single extra coin, and even their meals were skimped on. And so no one loved him; when he died, people merely breathed a sigh of relief.

The moneylender died without children, without an heir. By law, the property of a person who died without relatives would be seized by the state treasury. King Prasenajit sent officials to take inventory, and it took seven full days of carting to empty the house. The gold, silver, jewels, land, and houses were beyond counting. When everything was settled, King Prasenajit went to the monastery, bowed before the Buddha, and said:

"World-Honored One, in the city of Savatthi there was a moneylender of immense wealth, yet in life he was harsh and miserly, and no one loved him. Now he has died, and his property has passed into the royal treasury. I do not understand: why was he so rich yet lived so miserably? According to your teachings, wealth comes from generosity in past lives, yet this man lived stingily, doing no good deeds, never making offerings. What is the cause and effect (karmic law) here? Please explain, World-Honored One."

The Buddha smiled, looked at King Prasenajit, and began slowly:

"Great King, that moneylender, many lifetimes ago, was a man of some means. One day, a Pratyekabuddha — one who had attained the fruit of an Arhat — came to his door on alms round. Seeing the monk standing at his gate, he ordered a servant to bring out food as an offering. But he said 'give it' carelessly, without any real attention. The servant, seeing the monk's dignified bearing, felt respect arise in his heart and brought out the finest food in the house. When the Pratyekabuddha departed, the moneylender looked at the emptied tray and realized the servant had offered only the choicest dishes. A thought of regret arose in his mind: 'Why give away the good food? The leftovers would have been enough!' That single thought of regret, because it was directed toward an Arhat, brought a heavy karmic retribution."

The Buddha paused, his voice growing deeper:

"But that was not all. In that same life, he committed a great crime. He had an elder brother, and both were wealthy. The brother had a son to carry on the family line, while he himself was childless. Greed arose in his mind, and he thought: if I kill the boy, then when my brother dies, the family fortune will be mine. One day, he pretended to take his nephew out to play, led him deep into the forest, strangled the child to death, and hid the body in the bushes. He thought no one knew of his crime, but cause and effect (karmic law) never errs."

At this, King Prasenajit's face went pale. The Buddha continued:

"Because of the merit of offering food to the Pratyekabuddha, he was reborn in heavenly realms, and for many lifetimes he was born wealthy and noble. But because the mind of regret had sunk so deep into his subconscious, even in wealth he lived harshly, never daring to spend, never daring to give. By this lifetime, the merit from that offering had been exhausted, and since he had created no further blessings from merit throughout his life, when he died, the old karma of killing his nephew arose and dragged him down into hell, from which no one knows when he will escape."

King Prasenajit was stunned, and after a long silence he said:

"Venerable World-Honored One, how terrifying! Because of a single thought of regret, he must suffer for many lifetimes, and with the added sin of murder, the retribution of hell is nearly impossible to escape."

The Buddha nodded:

"Indeed, Great King. The mind of regret is a kind of sickness of the mind. When one gives and then regrets it, the merit is damaged, and that mind leads a person to torment himself. The rich who lack a generous heart, who do not believe in cause and effect (karmic law), find that their wealth is nothing but a burden pressing down on their lives. They know no joy, they love no one, and no one loves them. When they die, they cannot take their wealth with them; only the force of karma goes with them."

From this story, King Prasenajit took the Buddha's teaching deeply to heart. He looked at his own life, at the wealthy people around him, and understood this: blessings from merit and virtue are two different things. Blessings without virtue are only a burden. Virtue without blessings still allows one to practice, still allows one to create merit. What matters most is whether one's mind/heart has opened wide, whether one knows how to give without regret.

The Meaning of the Story

The story of the wealthy but miserable moneylender reminds us that possessions are not happiness. The rich who are stingy, who create no merit, who have no compassion, live only a chain of days imprisoned by their own miserliness. Giving and then regretting is more dangerous than not giving at all. For the mind of regret creates bad karma, making our lives miserable, and when our merit runs out, old evil karma will surface. The greatest lesson is this: learn to give with a joyful mind/heart, without regret. When you see someone succeed, rejoice with them. When you give someone something, wish that they receive even more. That mind/heart alone is the root of merit and lasting peace.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang