Night Boat. Alan Spence

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      TWO

      FLOATING WORLD,

      FLOWER-PATH

      By the time I was eighteen, in spite of the skimpy rations at the temple – the basic diet of rice and greens, a little fish from time to time – I had grown taller. And doing my share of the physical work – weeding and tending the garden, sweeping and cleaning, working in the kitchen – had made me strong. I liked nothing better than walking beyond the village and into the foothills, but also along the Tokaido and through the neighbouring towns, amazed at the passing show, the constant stream of people flowing to and from the capital. There were pedlars and salesmen and merchants touting their wares, quack doctors and medicine men, farmers taking their crops to market, geisha with their quick mincing steps in thick-soled clogs, samurai swaggering down the middle of the road, demanding respect, aristocrats carried in their palanquins, actors and acrobats, travelling storytellers with their portable kamishibai screens.

      In the post-station at Ejiri, close to the temple, was a courtyard where groups of travelling players would sometimes perform. I heard that a troupe from Edo was passing through and would be presenting a drama based on the tale of the Forty-seven Ronin. I had been struggling in my meditation, and I thought it might lift my spirits to see the play, so I made my way to Ejiri in the early evening, and took my place among the audience gathering in the courtyard. There was a sizeable crowd, a few of my fellow monks among the villagers and townsfolk, the merchants and their families. A little platform had been built where the wealthier and more prominent patrons could sit and watch the performance in comfort.

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