The Short Monk and the Verse About Killing Father and Mother

The evening breeze drifted through the sala trees of Jetavana forest, carrying the scent of wild grass and the gentle sound of a bell echoing from a tall stupa. The golden rays of the setting sun stretched long across the sandy courtyard, where the Buddha sat in serene dignity upon his seat, his shadow spreading out like a quiet fold of earth and sky. In the distance, the soft clatter of sandalwood footsteps drew near—five monks returning from a far-off land to visit the Buddha, their kasaya robes still dusted from the road.

"World-Honored One, we have returned from the North, longing to hear your teaching."

As they stepped through the doorway of the spacious incense hall, a small figure suddenly darted out. This monk was so short that he barely reached a person's waist, moving swiftly within his yellow robes, looking like a child lost among a crowd of people. The visiting almsmen glanced over, and in the depths of their hearts a faint contempt arose: how could one with such a lowly form be a noble one? The Buddha half-closed his eyes, reading every one of those thoughts.

These visiting monks were of South Indian stock—dark-skinned, tall, accustomed to judging beauty by outward appearance. They had traveled for months on end, leaving their villages to come to Jetavana for study and practice, accumulating effort but never fully uprooting the delusion of judging by physical form. Now, weariness combined with their habit of discrimination led them straight into error upon meeting Bhāraṇḍu Kuntaka—the short monk famous throughout the monastery.

The hearts of the five visitors tightened when they heard the Buddha speak in a deep voice, pointing directly at the short figure who had just passed by:

"Do you see that monk? It is he who killed his father, killed his mother, killed two kings, killed the court officials, and yet now lives in peace and joy."

The faces of the visiting monks went pale, their eyes wide with shock. One of them clutched his robe and stammered:

"World-Honored One... why do you praise such a cruel person? Can one who killed his father and mother live in tranquility?"

The Buddha remained seated in silence, the corner of his mouth holding a gentle smile, but he offered no explanation. Another visiting monk knelt down, his voice trembling:

"Buddha, if what you say is true, we are horrified! Why would a murderer come among us?"

The Buddha looked at them quietly, then slowly continued, his voice like water dripping onto stone:

"I said he killed the father of craving and attachment, killed the mother of ignorance, killed all his afflictions (kleshas) and delusive thoughts. That is what is called brahmana—one who has overcome, a noble one liberated from suffering (dukkha), and therefore he dwells in peace and joy."

The visiting monk suddenly raised his head, tears streaming down his dark, sweat-covered cheeks:

"You mean... Bhāraṇḍu Kuntaka is an Arahant? We have looked down upon a noble one!"

The Buddha nodded gently. The atmosphere grew heavy. The five visitors held their heads in their hands, their trembling fingers touching the ground, a wave of remorse surging from their chests up their throats like an electric shock. They had just realized: the one they had scorned was a being who had utterly destroyed all defilements. Shame tormented them, but it was precisely that overwhelming remorse that flung open the door of the spirit.

The turning point came when the Buddha continued:

"One who scorns others by their appearance wanders lost in the Dharma. But you, through your sincere remorse, will attain realization within this house of meditation."

In that very moment, the five visiting monks seemed to awaken. They prostrated themselves upon the ground, foreheads touching the warm sand, no trace of arrogance remaining. The Buddha's skillful means—casting them into bewilderment and then pulling them back—had torn out the very root of their contempt.

From that day on, the five remained at Jetavana, and every morning they came to pay homage to Bhāraṇḍu Kuntaka. They learned to see others with a pure mind/heart, no longer measuring by tall or short. That rainy season, while sitting in meditation under the roof of the monks' quarters, each of them in turn attained realization, the smiles on their lips light as clouds over the mountain peaks. Their lives turned toward a cool flowing stream, no longer wandering in the forest of wrong views.

The Meaning of the Story

This story shows how the Buddha used a skillful means—leading people into error in order to turn them around—helping the visiting monks clearly see their fault of scorning outward appearance. Sincere remorse is a virtue and a gateway to enlightenment. One who knows remorse and a sense of shame can be liberated from suffering (dukkha), while one who feels no shame over their mistakes is incapable of goodness and cannot be relied upon.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang