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Long ago in India there lived a wealthy man named Rushi, who enjoyed every worldly comfort. He owned more storehouses than could be counted, yet his heart was so mean that he begrudged food even to his wife and children, to say nothing of his servants. Whenever he wanted something to eat, he hid himself away so that no one could see him. One day, craving a great feast and knowing that nothing less would satisfy him, he said to his wife, “Prepare plenty of rice, wine, fruit, and other good things. I mean to make an offering to the god of miserliness that possesses me and makes me begrudge everything.” Delighted, his wife thought, “What a fine thing, that he should wish to rid himself of his stinginess!” She prepared all manner of dishes and gave him a generous supply. He accepted them, thinking that he would go somewhere no one could see him and eat his fill. Packing the food in a covered vessel and pouring wine into a flask, he set out. “There are crows beneath this tree; there are sparrows over there,” he said, searching until he found a place in the shade of a tree deep in the mountains, far from any human dwelling, where there were neither birds nor beasts. There he sat eating alone, his delight beyond compare, and chanted, “Here in the wilderness, eating rice and drinking wine, I enjoy such perfect ease that I surpass Vaishravana, surpass even Shakra, lord of heaven.” By this he meant, “Today, sitting alone where no one is about, eating and drinking wine, I am happier than either Vaishravana or Shakra.” Shakra happened to look down and see him. Perhaps finding him odious, he assumed Rushi’s appearance and went to his house. “It seems my offering in the mountains to the god of miserliness has had its effect,” he said. “The god has left me, and I no longer begrudge anything. So this is what I shall do.” He ordered the storehouses opened and had the treasures brought out and distributed, beginning with his wife, children, and servants, and extending even to strangers, wandering ascetics, and beggars. Everyone was joyfully taking a share when the true master returned. To find his storehouses all thrown open and people vying with one another for his treasures filled him with horror and a grief beyond words. “What do you mean by doing this?” he shouted. But then a man exactly like himself appeared and carried on giving things away, a marvel that left him utterly bewildered. “That fellow is a shapeshifting creature! I am the real master!” he cried, but no one would listen. He appealed to the king, who ordered that his mother be questioned. When she was asked, however, she replied, “Surely the one giving things to people must be my son,” and he was left without recourse. “Near his waist there is a mark called a wakubi,” she said. “Look for that as proof.” But when they bared their waists to be examined, would Shakra have failed to copy that as well? Both bore precisely the same mark. Helpless, the rich man went with his double before the Buddha. There Shakra resumed his true form, and the rich man realized that he had no case left to argue. Then, through the Buddha’s power, he at once attained the fruit of stream-entry. With his evil disposition cast off, his miserliness, too, disappeared. Thus there is no limit to the ways in which Shakra guides people. Why should he ever wish merely to squander a rich man’s wealth? How admirable that he devised all this out of compassion for a man whose miserly deeds would otherwise have brought him down to hell.