Kosiya, the Buddhist Scrooge
Reprinted from Imagination: The Story Issue
Parabola Magazine, Spring 2009
Kosiya, the Buddhist Scrooge
From a little, give a little.
From moderate means, give moderately.
From a lot, give a lot – It’s wise.
Then hoarding does not arise.
This verse might easily have been spoken by one of the ghostly visitors who appeared to Ebeneezer Scrooge one Christmas night and frightened him into changing his miserly ways. Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol in 1843. Close to two thousand years earlier, a Buddhist monk set down Jataka no. 535, in which a stingy treasurer named Kosiya retreats to the forest to enjoy a meal of rice porridge all alone. As he prepares the meal, five of his ancestors, dressed as begging Brahmins, arrive from the heaven realms to teach him the dangers of hoarding.
The story of Kosiya offers a Buddhist perspective on the mind and its tendency to retract and hold on to things. The contracted state is both painful and limiting. Stinginess only leads to more stinginess. Generosity, in contrast, loosens the mental identification with possessions and permits a whole range of experiences to follow such as joy, happiness, and connection. Generosity makes space in the mind and heart, while hoarding creates an interior prison. In Buddhist psychology, stinginess is not a form of greed. It is a form of aversion, and its principal manifestation is fear. In Kosiya, we recognize the complex web of fears associated with hoarding: fear of loss underlies the fear of sharing, but there is also the fear of being seen to be stingy. In the end, however, thanks to the compassion and imagination of his ancestors, Kosiya learns that the antidote to stinginess is giving.
Once, in the city of Varanasi, there was a wealthy householder. He was the king’s treasurer. The people called him Macchari-Kosiya (which means “Stingy Owl”) because of the way he sat guard over his wealth. He neither enjoyed it himself, nor did he share it with anyone else. He took a meal of dry powdery cakes, make from the husks of rice, and followed that with some sour rice gruel. He dressed in rough garments woven from the stalks of plants. He went about in a rickety cart, drawn by a decrepit old bull. When he went by, the people said, “There goes Kosiya, poor old Kosiya. He doesn’t look so well. If only he would give a little, then he would be happy.”
Kosiya came from a line of treasurers renowned for their generosity. Kosiya’s ancestor, the first treasurer, had built six halls of giving—dāna sala—one at each of the four gates of the city, one in the center of the city, and one at the gate of his very own home. Everyday he gave away great sums. Before he died he instructed his son, saying, “Remember to give.” From one generation to another, the tradition of generosity in Kosiya’s family was well established and each of his ancestors was reborn in the heaven realms.
When Kosiya’s father died, Kosiya said, “What a fool my father was, and his father and grandfather before him! They gave away their wealth. But not I. I will not give to anyone.”
He set fire to the six halls of giving and burnt them to the ground. The beggars came to his door, crying, “Lord Treasurer, do not break the tradition of your family. Give gifts!” The people in the city were amazed. “That Kosiya,” they said. “He is destroying the tradition of his own family.”
One day, Kosiya, on his way to see the king, stopped at the home of the under-treasurer. He found him and his family sitting down to a meal of rice porridge—payasam. Kosiya knew at once that it had been cooked exactly the way he liked it best, with crushed sugar, honey and fresh ghee, cinnamon and cardamom. His mouth began to water. He longed to taste some sweet rice porridge.
The under-treasurer leapt up, saying, “Lord Treasurer! Please join us.”
Kosiya very much wanted to eat some rice porridge, but the thought occurred to him, “If I enjoy some payasam now, in the home of the under-treasurer, I will owe him. If he and his children come to my house, I will be obliged to return the hospitality. And if I do, a great quantity of rice will be used up and my wealth will be destroyed. Therefore, I will not eat.”
Again and again, the under-treasurer entreated: “Lord Treasurer, please eat with us.” Again and again Kosiya refused.
Finally, the under-treasurer sat down to finish his meal. Kosiya sat down as well, watching as the family enjoyed their payasam, his mouth watering all the while. When the meal was done, the two went to see the king. Kosiya returned home alone, with the craving for sweet rice porridge weighing heavily upon him. Day and night he could think of nothing but payasam. He grew weak and pale. At last he took to his bed. He lay down, clutching his pillow. His wife came to him and stroked him on the back, saying, “My lord, are you ill? Tell me what ails you.”
“Nothing,” he muttered, with his face buried in the pillow.
“My lord,” she said, “You are pale. You are weak. Is there something weighing on your heart? Could it be that some craving has arisen?”
There was silence. Then Kosiya answered, “Yes. A craving has arisen.”
“Tell me what it is,” said his wife.
Kosiya described his visit to the home of the under-treasurer where he’d found the whole family sitting down, eating payasam, cooked exactly the way he liked it best.
She laughed, “Foolish man! Are you really so poor? I will cook enough rice porridge to feed the whole city.”
He sat up, as if struck on the head by a stick. “What?” he yelled. “Are you mad? Feed the entire city! Feed them yourself!”
“All right, then. I’ll cook for all our neighbors, here on this street.”
He shook his head, “No! Let them eat what belongs to them.”
“My dear,” said his wife, “It is not good to eat alone.”
Kosiya did not reply.
“I know,” she went on. “I’ll cook enough payasam for you and me. In this way, your craving will be satisfied.”
He shuddered. He couldn’t bear the thought.
“Well then,” she said, “I’ll shall cook for you alone.”
“No! If you cook in this house others will smell the rice porridge. Others will want some. Then my wealth will be destroyed.” Kosiya lowered his voice: “Give me a cooking vessel. Give me four portions of husked rice, a basket of crushed sugar, a pot of honey, and a pot of milk. I will go into the forest, cook the rice porridge, and eat.”
His wife sighed and gathered everything. She sent a servant with Kosiya into the forest, to the bank of a river. The servant built an oven, brought firewood, and lit a fire. Kosiya began to assemble his porridge. Into the pot he put the husked rice. He added the milk, the sugar, the ghee, the cardamom and cinnamon.
Then he said to the servant, “Go and stand in the road. If you see anybody coming, make a sign. When I am done, I shall call you.”
Now at that moment, Sakka, King of the Gods, was contemplating the splendor of his heavenly dwelling. He asked himself, “How have I attained such glory as this?” He remembered his previous lifetime, when he was appointed Lord High Treasurer, and established a great tradition of giving. “What of my descendants?” he asked himself. He saw that his descendants had continued the tradition. He saw that each one had been reborn in the heaven realms.
“But what of the current treasurer?” he asked himself. “Does our tradition of giving continue?” Sakka saw that the current treasurer was about to eat a meal of rice porridge, all alone in the woods.
Sakka called to his descendants, Chanda, Suriya, Matali and Panchasikha. He said to them, “At this very moment our descendant is preparing to eat a meal all alone, not knowing the benefits of giving. Let us go to the human realms and teach him the fruits of generosity.”
To the human realms they went, disguised as Brahmins, and approached Kosiya one by one. (Sakka knew that if they were to approach Kosiya all at once, the shock would be too great for him, and he might very well die from it.)
As Kosiya was stirring his rice porridge, up behind him came Sakka, disguised as a poor Brahmin.
“Ho! Friend! Which is the way to Varanasi?”
Kosiya turned about. “What, are you mad? Do you not even know the way to Varanasi? Be gone from here!”
Sakka stepped closer, as if he hadn’t heard.
“What are you saying?”
“Deaf old Brahmin, be gone from here!”
“Why are you shouting at me?” said Sakka. “Here I see smoke. I see a fire. I smell rice porridge cooking. Surely this must be some occasion for entertaining Brahmins. When the meal is ready I shall take a little.”
Kosiya was furious. “This is no occasion for entertaining Brahmins! Be gone from here!”
“Why are you so angry?” said Sakka. “When the meal is ready, I will take a little.”
Kosiya trembled as he spoke. “This little bit of rice is just enough to keep me alive. And even that I got by begging.”
Sakka said, “Is that so?”
“Yes,” insisted Kosiya.
And then he spoke this verse:
Never do I buy, neither do I sell,
Nor is there any hoarding of rice by me.
This little bit, through much trouble and pain,
Was got by me.
And this I say to you
There is not enough for two!
Sakka smiled. He said, “Your words are fine. Now I will speak a verse for you.”
“No,” said Kosiya, shooing Sakka away. “I will not hear your verse. Be gone!” But Sakka began,
From a little, give a little.
From moderate means, give moderately.
From a lot, give a lot. It’s wise.
Then hoarding does not arise.
This I say to you, Kosiya:
Practice giving. Do not eat alone.
Step on to the noble path. Be freed.
No happiness is gained by greed.
Kosiya heard Sakka’s words. He knew the respect that was owed to wandering teachers. He said reluctantly, “Your verse is fine, Brahmin. You may sit down. When the meal is ready, you shall have a little.” Sakka sat down to one side.
But then, along came Chanda.
“Ho, friend! Which is the way to Varanasi?” he called out.
“What?” said Kosiya, his irritation turning to fury, “Another Brahmin?”
Although Kosiya protested, Chanda spoke a verse as well:
Empty is the offering
Empty is the craving in your heart,
If, when a guest is sitting by,
You do not share a little part.
Kosiya sighed, “Very well. When the rice porridge is ready, you may have a little.”
Next came Suriya. Then came Matali and Panchasikha.
Each time they spoke a verse, and each time Kosiya moaned and groaned, but invited them to sit down. When the five Brahmins were seated, the rice porridge was cooked.
Kosiya said, “Bring a leaf so I may serve you.”
The Brahmins got leaves from an acacia tree. With his wooden ladle Kosiya put a dollop of rice porridge right in the center of each leaf. There was still a great quantity of payasam in the pot. Kosiya took the pot and sat down, opposite his guests.
He was about to taste the rice porridge, when Panchasikha, stood up, abandoned his human form, and took the form of a great hound. Approaching where the Brahmins and Kosiya were sitting, he lifted his leg and let forth a great stream upon the ground. The Brahmins used the wide rim of their acacia leaves to cover the payasam. Kosiya covered the opening of the pot with his hands, but a little drop landed on the back of one hand.
Of course, he could not eat, not until his hands were washed.
The Brahmins had clay water-jars with them, filled with water. They took their jars now and began to sprinkle some water on the porridge, mixing it in.
Seeing that they had water, Kosiya said, “Give me some water that I may wash my hands and eat.”
Sakka replied, “Fetch water yourself.”
Kosiya was indignant. He said, “Rice porridge has been given to you by me. Give me some water.”
The Brahmins replied, “We are not in the habit of exchanging alms. Fetch water yourself.”
Kosiya said, “Very well. If you would be so kind, please watch my porridge.”
He was just descending to the river to wash his hands, when that hound came closer still. He lifted his leg again and let forth another great stream, right into the pot of payasam. Kosiya saw him do it. He was horrified. He took a great stick and, cursing, came after the hound. But the hound changed into a horse, and the horse was first black, then white, then dappled, then golden, a great thoroughbred blood horse, foaming at the mouth, chasing Kosiya through the woods.
Terrified, Kosiya ran to the Brahmins. Sakka and the others made no further pretence of eating the payasam. They lifted into air and stayed there, hovering.
Kosiya was amazed. “Who are you, noble Brahmins?” he said, “and who is this hound of yours?”
“Kosiya,” Sakka responded, “we are your ancestors who established a great tradition of generosity in the city. Guided by much compassion for you we have come, not to taste your payasam, but to teach you the benefits of giving.
At that moment, Kosiya’s mind was released. His ancestors departed and Kosiya sat down on the riverbank. For a long while he watched the water run by. His servant, wondering what had happened to his master, came up and was surprised to find Kosiya smiling, as if planning some wonderful surprise.
“Let us return now,” said Kosiya. “I have something urgent to attend to.” As soon as he arrived home Kosiya sent a message to the king, asking for the loan of every vessel he had. Later in the afternoon, two wagons arrived at Kosiya’s home, filled with bowls, urns, pitchers, jars, cups, and baskets. Kosiya gave orders to the servants in his household, and filled every one of those vessels with coins and distributed them all throughout the city.
Then Kosiya began to cook. He cooked a mountain of rice. He made great pots of rice porridge with crushed sugar, fresh ghee, honey and spices. Soon everybody in the neighborhood could smell the payasam cooking. Kosiya sent his children to invite them and so they came—the acrobats, the jugglers, the dancers, the musicians, the travelers, the beggars, the outcastes, the under-treasurer and all his children, coming to eat sweet rice porridge at the home of Macchari-Kosiya, Stingy Owl.
Stories speak directly to our hearts, engaging the imagination through all the senses. They evoke images of other times and places, and sometimes they offer us a new way of seeing our own narrative. I told this story on the last night of a silent meditation retreat held on the island of Maui. The morning following the storytelling, the cooks were inspired to serve a variation of payasam for breakfast, along with the usual fare of fresh pineapple and papaya. One of the retreatants told me how the story had helped her forgive and understand her father, who had never been able to be generous with his wealth. She described a trip she had made with him and how painful it was to witness his continual counting of pennies and concern over spending money. Hearing the story of Kosiya allowed her to see him in a new light, as someone who had been driven by his fear of loss and deprivation for a long time. Instead of holding on to her resentment, she felt like now she could begin to feel some compassion for him.
Hoarding and stinginess are contracted states of mind, arising out of habit and fear of change. But, as the story shows, even the most entrenched misers (characters such as Kosiya, or Dickens’ Scrooge) are capable of transformation. Compassion and imagination combine to make it happen.