Читать книгу Night Boat - Alan Spence - Страница 11

ONE TIME, ONE PLACE

The head priest at Daisho-ji, Sokudo Fueki, was a wiry, vigorous man, perhaps my father’s age, in his forties.

So, he said, you didn’t last long at Shoin-ji. Why did they throw you out?

The priest, I said, Tanrei Soden. He thought . . .

That old fart, said Sokudo. He hasn’t had a thought in years. He should just write a death-verse and pack his bags, be done with it.

I was shocked at his bluntness. Then I wondered if his words were a test.

I’m sure he is a man of wisdom, I said, and a very capable priest.

Oh, you’re sure, are you? said Sokudo. On the basis of what?

I . . .

He took one look at you, shaved your head, slapped a new name on you and shunted you out the door.

It was true. I’d been disappointed at the speed of my departure from Shoin-ji, with barely time to let the dust settle. But I’d assumed the old man knew what was for the best.

Your loyalty does you credit, said Sokudo. And perhaps I’m being harsh. Maybe if I get to that age I’ll be content to sit on my arse waiting for enlightenment. But right now I think it would be better to die and descend into hell.

I felt the heat prickle my scalp, sweat run down my back.

Descend into hell.

He sensed my reaction.

Ah, he said. The fear. Well, that can be a good place to start. As good as any.

I was set a number of seemingly menial tasks – scrubbing the floors, sweeping the courtyard, scouring out the rice-pots in the kitchen. With long sessions of zazen – seated meditation – in between, beginning early in the morning, the work filled my time and I was glad of the routine. But right from the beginning I hankered after more.

One day Sokudo told me someone wanted to see me, a respected guest who was passing through. He led me to the shrine room and bowed to the old man seated there. I recognised him straight away – he was Kyushinbo, a wandering monk with a fearsome reputation. When I was a child he had often stayed at my parents’ home on his way along the Tokaido. They were grateful to have him visit and to offer him hospitality.

Once he had told me I would achieve great things when I grew up. Remember the path is long and arduous, he told me. Shakyamuni was six years in the mountains. Bodhidharma was nine years at Shao-lin. You must persevere.

He was famous for chanting the Nembutsu and he played the shakuhachi with a wild spine-chilling energy. It was rumoured he could fly through the air and he was reputed to be over a hundred years old.

Now here he was, seated in front of me. I bowed and pressed my forehead to the floor, didn’t get up till he addressed me.

So, he said, young crane. You have embarked on your journey.

I didn’t know what to say. I nodded and stood silent.

One time alone, he said. One place alone. Remember this precept. Be one-pointed in your practice. One time, one place.

I bowed deep and he continued.

I have three pieces of advice, he said, and I stood, ready to receive his guidance.

First, do not waste food. When you have finished eating, clean your bowl by rinsing it with warm water, then drink the water from the bowl.

This made sense. It was wise, and frugal, though perhaps not the kind of instruction I was expecting.

Second, he said, never piss standing up. Always crouch down.

Yes, I said. I mean, no.

Third, he said, never piss or shit facing north.

Again I was at a loss, not knowing how to respond.

Follow these instructions rigorously, said the old man, and you will live a long healthy life.

Remember Shakyamuni, he said. Remember Bodhidharma. Persevere.

The interview was over. I bowed and backed out of the room.

Later Sokudo spoke to me.

An unexpected blessing, he said.

Yes, I said. I am sure his advice will be . . . useful.

He laughed.

Persevere.

More than anything I was eager to read the Lotus Sutra. The teaching of Nichiren had sustained my mother all her life. I could see her face, smiling at me. I remembered the feeling at that puppet show, the tale of Nisshin Shonin walking through fire, the power and intensity of the whole audience joining in the chant. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. Now I could read the sutra for myself.

I was alone in the library, the book on the table in front of me, lifted down from its special place, unwrapped. I had lit an incense stick. I kneeled in reverence and gratitude. I chanted. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. Outside, a bird sang, a hototogisu. I bowed and opened the book, began to read.

It was hard work.

It wasn’t just that the Chinese characters were difficult to read, it was the words themselves, the density and weight of the thing.

It began well enough, clearly and simply.

Thus have I heard.

Then it told of the Buddha dwelling on Mount Gridhrakuta, Vulture Peak, with a great gathering of Bhikshus, twelve thousand in all.

Their names were Ajnatakaundinya, Mahakashyapa, Uruvilvakashyapa . . .

I read with a sense of panic, fearing it would list all twelve thousand names. But it stopped after twenty or thirty, adding . . . and other great Arhats such as these.

I breathed easier, read on as it indicated the others in attendance – eighty thousand Bodhisattvas, thousands of Gods, Dragon Kings, Asura Kings, all with their hundreds of thousands of followers.

I read how they all walked round the Buddha, paying him homage, and he then spoke this sutra, The Great Vehicle of Limitless Principles. Then there fell from the heavens an endless rain of flowers – mandarava, mahamandarava, mahamanjushaka.

I intoned the names. I could picture the blossoms, imagine breathing in their fragrance.

Then Buddha emitted from between his brows a white light illuminating all the worlds. Manjushri stepped forward and spoke in verse.

The Buddha will speak the Dharma Flower Sutra.

All of you should now understand

And with one heart fold your hands and wait.

The Buddha will let fall the Dharma rain

To satisfy all those who seek the Way.

It had taken me a whole afternoon to read the introduction, just to get to the point where the teaching would begin. My head ached as if held tight in an iron clamp. I chanted once more, Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I bowed and closed the book.

Perhaps it was because I was not as accomplished in Chinese as I had thought. Perhaps it was the endless lists of names and designations, the Bodhisattvas and Arhats, the Gods and Asuras. Whatever the reason, my progress through the text was slow.

The second chapter spoke of the Buddha’s Expedient Devices, the way he taught. Tricks of the trade, I thought, then stopped myself, inwardly asking the Buddha’s forgiveness for such irreverence.

Expedient Devices.

He spoke at length – at great length – about the Dharma, wonderful beyond conception, profound and hard to understand. He made this clear, over and over, the difficulty of grasping the truth, even for the greatest of them.

Thousands of beings present, listening to this, bowed and took their leave.

Buddha spoke of their overweening pride, said they claimed to know what they did not know. Then he said he had shaken the tree and cleared its branches and leaves so only the trunk remained.

Those who can hear the Dharma are rare, he said.

And yet . . .

A few pages further on he said that through these Expedient Devices the Dharma would spread.

Even children at play, he said, who draw with a stick, or their fingernails, an image of the Buddha, will gradually accumulate merit and virtue. And if people in temples make offerings with a happy heart, or with songs and chants praise the Buddha, they have realised the Buddha Way.

I thought of my mother. I saw her face clearly.

Have no further doubts, said the Buddha. Let your hearts be filled with joy. You know you will reach Buddhahood.

The third chapter began with a lengthy discourse on falling into the net of doubts, fearful that the very voice of Buddha might be a demon in disguise, come to cause confusion. But the Buddha himself spoke and made all clear, dispelled the doubts, calmed the heart.

I ploughed on, through endless lines of incantation, singing the Buddha’s praises, telling of a future age, after limitless aeons, a Pure Land, tranquil and prosperous and abounding with gods.

It shall have lapis lazuli for soil and trees made of seven jewels, constantly blooming and bearing fruit.

I shifted to ease the ache in my back. I sipped bitter tea from my rough clay bowl. My head was beginning to feel clamped again, tight. I read on, through more lists, more praising, more offerings, to a passage where Buddha spoke in a parable.

In a particular country there was a great elder, old and worn, who had limitless wealth and lived in a huge house. Hundreds of people lived there as well as all manner of other creatures. There were snakes and scorpions, lizards and rats and mice; there were owls and hawks and vultures, magpies and crows. The house was swarming, overrun with packs of scavenging dogs, and corpse-devouring wolves. It was haunted by hungry ghosts and malevolent spirits, and the whole place was rotting and falling into ruin and decay.

One day, the owner of the house, the old man, went out through the open door, and he had hardly gone any distance when a fire broke out at the back of the house and quickly spread till all four sides were in flame. The beasts and birds and ghosts and demons all fought among themselves, devouring one another.

The old man suddenly realised that all his children had gone into the house, aeons ago, to play, and he rushed back inside to save them from the fire. But they were so intent on their play, their endless amusements, that they didn’t hear his warnings. He told them of the fire, and the hundreds of vicious creatures surrounding them, but they carried on playing and paid him no heed. So he called out to them that he had all kinds of precious things waiting for them outside. And they gave up their games and rushed out through the door, and they gathered round him where he sat, in a clearing some distance away. And he rejoiced to see them safe, and he showered them with gifts as he had promised. He used his wealth to provide fabulous jewelled carriages, pulled by pure white oxen, and the children rode off in the four directions, unobstructed, to enjoy his gifts.

When he had told the story, the Buddha spoke.

All living beings are my children. Deeply attached to worldly pleasures, they have no wisdom at all. The Three Realms are like a burning house, terrifying and filled with suffering. Ever present are the endless woes of birth, old age, sickness and death – these are the fires that burn without end. And although I instruct my children, they do not believe or accept, because of their deep attachment to greed and desire.

He then went on to repeat the Four Noble Truths. Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Suffering can be conquered. There is a Way. And he held up the sutra itself as the purest vehicle for transcending desire, for going beyond suffering.

The Buddhas rejoice in it, and all living beings should praise it.

This very world we were living in, a burning house, collapsing all about us. I could feel the flames licking at me, hear the howls and screams of all my fellow creatures.

I chanted once more. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I stood up and went outside, felt the cool evening breeze.

For weeks I read the sutra every day, pored over it hour after hour. The Bodhisattvas and Arhats and countless other beings listened without end to the Buddha’s sermons, his descriptions of the various worlds and the beings who inhabited them, the future Buddhas and the worlds they would create, the blessings they would bestow.

Turn the Dharma wheel.

Beat the Dharma drum.

Blow the Dharma conch.

Let fall the Dharma rain.

The parables at least were easier to read, simple tales, each with a simple point to make. Expedient Devices. To spread the teaching. The Dharma falls on all alike, nourishing the smallest herbs and the largest trees. Each one receives what it needs.

The tale of the young man who falls into a drunken sleep while visiting a friend’s house, and the friend has to leave early in the morning to go to another country, and before he goes he secretly sews a pearl into the man’s clothing. And he wakes and goes out into the world, seeking wealth, trying to earn a living, not realising he carries this priceless pearl with him all along, till he meets his friend again, and his friend tells him it is there.

So with the wealth the Buddha has bestowed on us . . .

The tale of the young man who leaves his father’s palace and wanders in the world, and falls into poverty, and ends up shovelling dung for twenty years till his father finds him and brings him back.

I wondered if shovelling dung for twenty years might be an easier path to enlightenment than ploughing through these scriptures.

Then I found another of those passages that made me stop, read it again. It spoke of spreading the Dharma through the sutra.

If there is one who reads and recites, receives and upholds the Sutra, or copies out even a single verse with reverence, know that this person in the past has already made offerings to tens of millions of Buddhas.

Further down the page, it took it even further.

If a good man or woman, after my extinction, can secretly explain one sentence of the Sutra to one single person, know that this person is my messenger, come to do my work.

It also made it clear that this work would not be easy.

Entering the fire at the end of the Kalpa and not being burned, that would not be difficult. But after my extinction, upholding the Sutra and preaching it to one single person, that would be difficult.

Entering the fire.

There were passages about right conduct, injunctions to monks as to how they should behave, particularly in relation to women.

Do not take delight in looking at young women. Do not speak with young girls, maidens or widows.

And another parable – another parable! – began: The body of a woman is filthy and impure and not a fit vessel for Dharma. Thus spake the Venerable Shariputra.

Once more I thought of my mother, the pure simplicity of her devotion.

And yet . . .

The parable continued with the story of the Dragon Girl, daughter of the Dragon King and Queen, who was clearly an exception to this general rule. She possessed a rare and precious pearl which she was able to offer to the Buddha, who accepted it.

Was that not quick? she asked, and was thus transformed into a living Buddha herself.

So, however grudging and reluctant the admission, it was there. The possibility existed.

I ground on through more lists, more expositions, more injunctions. My brain ached. Sometimes after hours of it I felt a sense of virtue, a kind of dutiful piety at forcing myself to sit there. At rare moments I went beyond that into a fleeting glimpse of something beyond, which was yet, at the same time, here and now.

In a quiet place

he collects his thoughts

dwelling peacefully

unmoved and unmoving

like Mount Sumeru

contemplating all dharmas

as having no existence

like empty space . . .

Then more numbing lists, more simplistic parables, and the moment would be lost.

Buddha spoke of the Bodhisattvas. If you were to count them for as many aeons as there are sands in the River Ganges, you could not count them all, your counting would have no end. There are as many Bodhisattvas as there are dust-motes in the great world, and each and every one of these Bodhisattvas was taught by the Buddha and transformed.

Propagate the Dharma. Cause it to spread and grow.

Endless, limitless, infinite numbers, to fill the mind with awe.

I began to make notes for myself, copy out short passages, exhortations that spoke to me directly.

Be vigorous and single-minded.

Hold no doubts or regrets.

Abide in patience and goodness.

One particular Bodhisattva, Guanyin, could be invoked in times of suffering and distress.

In times of suffering, agony, danger and death, he is our refuge and protection.

If someone is surrounded by bandits who threaten him with knives, and he invokes Guanyin, the knives will shatter into pieces.

If someone is pushed into a pit of fire and invokes Guanyin, the pit will be turned into a cooling pool.

I wrote these lines beside my other notes. I read on, finally reached the last page.

When the Buddha had spoken this sutra, all the great assembly rejoiced and received his teaching, and they made obeisance and withdrew.

I closed the book and sat in silence for a long time. Aeons. Kalpas. Then I returned it with reverence to its special niche in the library.

The priest realised I had read the whole sutra, from cover to cover.

Well, he asked, what have you learned?

I did not know what to say, so I said nothing.

Are you banging at the gates of Paradise? he asked. Ready to ascend into Nirvana?

Still I was silent.

Is this the silence of the enlightened man, or are you just dumbstruck, stupefied?

I cleared my throat.

It was not what I had expected.

Ah.

This time it was the priest who let the silence sit there. After a while he spoke again.

And what did you expect?

I do not know.

But you know it was not this.

Not this. Something more.

I thought of my mother, her eyes shining, chanting Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I felt disloyal. I thought of the passage describing those who disparage the sutra, the hundreds of painful rebirths they have to endure. I felt a twinge of fear.

There are many beautiful passages, I said. Absolute jewels. But they are buried.

Hidden, he said. For you to discover.

But forgive me, they are hidden amongst so much dross, they are hard to find.

That may be the point.

Endless lists, I said, endless arguments about procedure and hierarchy, endless incantations. Then page after page of teaching through parables, simple tales of cause and effect.

It had all come out of me in a rush. I bowed.

Forgive me, I said again.

There is nothing to forgive, he said. Perhaps some day you will read it again, perhaps in another life, and it will speak to you more directly.

Perhaps, I said, not believing it for a moment, and feeling empty and bereft as though I had been cheated or had lost something precious.