SHAKLED
BY SUTRAS
Chapter
1
My family’s
religion is Buddhist Shingon sect. So, I had interest in the founder of
Shingon, the monk Kukai, in my boyhood. Another thing I was interested in was
an ancestral treasure scroll. It was decorated in the alcove next to the
Buddhist altar whenever the Buddhist memorial service was held. On the scroll
was written a phrase of the sutra “Namu-kanze-jizai-bosatsu” (Buddha of
Compassion). Whenever the chanting of the sutra was finished, the priest and my
father would often refer to “Dogon” in their conversation, while looking at the
scroll. As a child, I wondered what “Dogon” was.
Dogon’s diary was discovered during the
renovation of Zentsuji Temple in Kagawa Prefecture according to the Asahi
Newspaper dated on September 30, 2012. Dogon was a notable priest in the 9th
century Japan, who recommended Kukai to become a priest (See “Sango-shiiki”
written by Kukai). The discovery of the diary was “epoch making for the
Buddhist history in Japan.”
In March I retired from teaching at the age
of 60 and went on the Pilgrimage of the 88 Temples in Shikoku. I arrived at the
75th temple of Zentsuji in May, and had a chance to read Dogon’s
diary. As it was written in classical Chinese, I was not able to comprehend it.
However, thanks to the help of the head priest of the temple, Jikan, I grasped
the content.
The diary was written between May, 779 when
Dogon went to Tang as a member of Japanese official diplomatic delegation to
China and February, 801 when he returned to Japan. He wrote in it how he
studied Tantric Buddhism from the monk Bùkōng; how he felt inferior to one of
his classmates, the monk Hui-kuo; and how he had come to reach enlightenment.
His diary moved me so much that I thought it
would be a waste of a valuable asset if it was not published. However, since it
was written in classical Chinese, the general public could not understand it at
all. Therefore, with the permission of Jikan, I decided to make it into a story
and publish it. I know it is a reckless attempt, but I would be happy if the
readers would get the idea of how Dogon lived.
Chapter
2
On May 8,
779, I went over to Chang'an, the Chinese capital, as a member of a Japanese
diplomatic delegation to study Buddhist Tantrism from Bùkōng, a grand disciple of
Xuanzang. In those days, Hui-kuo, two years senior to me, was also studying Tantrism
from him.
Xuanzang had been to India and brought back
a large number of Sanskrit sutras to Chang'an and translated them into Chinese investing
19 years. The whole translation works consisted of 1,347 volumes. I read aloud day
after day the innumerous number of sutras trying to understand them, and transcribed
them onto wood strips with the greatest care.
The transcribed sutras included Sotsuji Sutra, Kongocho Sutra, Dainichi
Sutra, Dainichi-kyoso, the Heart Sutra, Rishu Sutra, Yugi Sutra, and Yoryakunenjyu Sutra. The number of wood
strips amounted to over 5,000.
I discussed
Buddhist Tantrism with Hui-kuo to attain a deep understanding. To tell the truth,
however, I felt inferior to him because he seemed to understand it more thoroughly
than I. I did not know why he had such a deep comprehension of it although he
and I had been studying it under Bùkōng.
One day, Bùkōng
said, “If you want to read a sutra, you must not read it.” His words were like a
riddle and I could not understand it at all to my disappointment. However hard
I tried to solve the riddle, I failed, until finally I asked Hui-kuo what
Bùkōng had meant.
“I think I
understand it,” he replied.
To hear that,
I thought momentarily that he had said so out of vanity, but on second thought I
changed my mind. I knew he was not such a person. I thought he was being
considerate to me. That was why he said, “I ‘think’ I understand it,” I thought.
I was
frustrated. I thought it a shame that I did not understand Bùkōng’s words as a
priest sent to Chang'an by the Japanese government. I thought I had not read
the sutras thoroughly enough. Therefore, I resumed reading them aloud even more
diligently than before. Thanks to that, I came to recite almost perfectly the
Three Shingon Buddhism Sutras: Sotsuji
Sutra, Kongocho Sutra, and Dainichi
Sutra. However, three years passed like an arrow without understanding
Bùkōng’s words.
On November
28, 781, three days before leaving Chang'an, I visited Hui-kuo at Seiryuji
Temple. We drank and discussed Buddhist Tantrism. Soon the topic of
conversation moved to calligraphy. Hui-kuo was one of the three best
calligraphers in those days.
He was able
to write with ease Chinese characters in cursive, square, seal, or any other
styles. I was far behind him in both the study of Buddhist Tantrism and writing
Chinese characters. Since I wanted to be competent in calligraphy, I asked him
what the knack was.
“My calligraphy
is nothing compared to Rin-So’s or Kokan’s, but I always keep this rule in mind
when I use an ink brush,” he said. “It is: first, do not write with your
fingers, but write with your hand; second, do not write with your hand, but
write with your arm; third, do not write with your arm, but write with your shoulder;
fourth, do not write with your shoulder, but write with your body; fifth, do
not write with your body, but write with your mind; sixth, do not write with
your mind, but write with detachment; and finally write freely. I think this
rule is similar to Bùkōng’s words in the core: ‘If you want to read a sutra,
you must not read it.’”
Hearing him,
I was able to figure out Bùkōng’s words vaguely, but I thought I needed some
more time to get the real understanding of his words. I admired Hui-kuo for detecting
the similarity between the calligraphy rule and Bùkōng’s words. I made up my
mind to introduce to Hui-kuo a priest who would visit Chang'an as a member of
the next delegation.
On December
first, I prepared to board the ship to return to Japan. The things I was going
to bring back to Japan were: 140 volumes of wood sticks consisting of 5,000 wood
sticks, Buddha statues, Buddha’s ashes, Compassion Buddha statues, miniature
shrines, Buddhist altar articles, mandala pictures, and beads. I wrapped the 140
volumes of wood sticks with oiled paper with five volumes in each bundle so
that they would not get wet with sea water. I also wrapped all the other items
with oiled paper. I put them in a portable wickerwork chest. On the chest, I
wrote words from a sutra “Namu Kanze Jizai Bosatsu” in sumi ink. The chest
weighed nearly ten kilograms.
The return trip
to Japan was as follows:
December 12: The ship left Suzhou Port for Japan. It took
the southern course.
January 23,
782: Reached Amami Islands. The damaged
parts of the ship were fixed. It was revictualed.
January
27: Reached Bonotsu, Satsuma Peninsula,
and waited for the leading wind.
January 31: Left Bonotsu.
February 6: Reach Nagasaki Port. Scheduled to sail to
Hakatatsu through the Sea of Genkai.
Around the noon when the ship was sailing
the Sea of Genkai, the sky was covered with dark clouds and the heavy wind
began to rough the sea. In case the ship sank, I bound the three wooden boxes to
the mast and asked a sailor to bind the chest to my body.
Soon the wind
became foul and the sea ran high. The storm lasted for hours till the evening, destroying
both masts and tearing the canvases. With the helm broken, the ship drifted
along to the north until it became stranded. Soon the bow broke and the ship
broke into three parts. When it began to sink, I jumped into the sea. Luckily
the chest I shouldered functioned as a buoyancy bag. I narrowly kept floating.
I saw in front of me a few men desperately clinging to a mast, going up and
down the waves.
I did not
know how long I drifted. The storm had abated. I felt icy cold and exhausted. I
saw only the dark sky and the dark sea. When I happened to look at the Buddhist
rosary which I thought I was clasping hard, I found it had gone. I had a
feeling of foreboding. Would I have to die in the dark sea alone? I knew
several Japanese official ships to China had sunk. Did the deceased delegation
members feel the same way as I was feeling then? Would the remaining wooden
sticks disappear? Gradually my eyesight became dim, and my hearing weak. Suddenly
I saw a dozen of bright Buddha in front of me, which then turned into my mother’s
faces. I was losing consciousness. I left it to fate.
When I awoke,
I found myself lying on a bed. I heard birds chirping. It looked like morning.
A young monk was sitting beside me. My chest was at the corner of the room.
“Ah, at last you
are awake,” the monk said.
I did not
know how to talk. I collected myself.
“Where am I?”
I said in a feeble voice.
“Koura in
Matsue. This is Koenji Temple,” he said.
“Matsue? In
Izumo Domain?”
“Yes. Please
wait a moment. I’ll call the chief monk,” he said and left the room.
I was
surprised to know that the ship had drifted as far as Matsue offing. I wondered
whether Ambassador Kiyonao Fuse, Vice Ambassador Hironari Tajihino, officers,
secretaries, and other members of the delegation were alive. Was I the only one
who had survived? I was disappointed that the three boxes had sunk to the
bottom of the sea. However, I was still alive and the chest was intact. I
thanked Buddha.
Soon the chief monk
appeared. I tried to get up to greet him.
“Oh, don’t, please lie down,”
he said. “My name is Shingyo, the chief monk of the temple. I am honored to
have such a high rank monk as you in my temple. I thank Buddha for this.”
He
then talked about how I had been carried to the temple the previous night.
According
to him, a fisherman found me lying almost dead on Koura beach the previous
night. He thought I was a monk because I was clad in a monk garb, my head clean-shaven,
and Buddhist rosaries around my neck. A portable chest was bound to my body. On
its surface was written a phrase from a Buddhist sutra in ink. He guessed that I
had been on board the wrecked ship off Matsue. He gathered fellow fishermen and
carried me to the temple.
“You went over to Tang to
study Buddhism as one of the Japanese delegates, I presume. I say this because
one of the fishermen said that he had seen the same type of ship drifting off
Inasa beach a few years before. Later he learned that the ship had carried the Japanese
delegates to Tang.”
“You’re right. My name is
Dogon. I am a monk dispatched to Tang by the Imperial court to study Buddhist
Tantrism,” I said.
Shingyo was delighted to
hear that and wanted me to stay in the temple as long as I could and talk about
Tang and Buddhism.
I stayed there for five
days till February 11. I recovered considerably from the verge of death. I
thought I had to report to the Nara Imperial Court as soon as possible. I told
Shingyo that I wanted to leave for the Nara court since I had gotten well. He
advised me, however, to wait till spring because crossing over the mountains at
that time of the year would be too cold and dangerous. But I was resolute, and
so Shingyo consented to me.
A six days’ walk along the
Izumo Highway covering about 13 kilometers would take one to Himeji, a city on
the Seto Inland Sea. A half a day’s sail from Himeji would then take one to
Suminoetsu. Nara was a stone’s throw away from it.
Shingyo gave me a lot of
things in preparation for my trip: cotton-wadded kimono, straw sandals,
medicine, and for victuals, roasted peas, dried chestnuts and sweet potatoes, and
baked rice. He also gave me a set of flints to build a fire in a cold weather.
On the early morning of
February 13, I bade farewell to Shingyo, who showed a painful reluctance.
February 14
Passed through Yonego. Stayed at Mizoguchi
February 15 Passed through Neu and Sakaihara. Stayed at a
Shisho inn near Shijyu-magari-toge Hill.
February 16 Passed through Yakushi-do. Stayed at a Mikamo
inn.
On the early morning of
February 17, the owner of the inn said looking up at the cloudy sky, “I’m
afraid it will snow today. I suggest you postpone the departure.”
“Thank you for your advice,
but if I go over Kubikiri Hill, the rest will be easy. All I have to do is just
walk down the slope until I reach Katsuyama. I want to report to the Imperial
court as soon as possible. So I will depart.”
“But, Kubikiri Hill is
the most difficult spot along the highway. Sometimes travelers freeze to death.
I won’t insist, but I recommend you to give up departing today,” the innkeeper pleaded.
“You don’t say. I won’t
freeze to death. I will build a fire in case,” I said.
Leaving the inn, I walked
along the mountain highway under a dark sky. I went up the slope of Kubikiri
Hill hurriedly so that I would reach Katsuyama before the snowfall. When I
almost got to the top of the hill, I sprained my ankle. As I was carrying the
heavy chest on my back, the weight of the load sharply hit me on the ankle with
every step I took. I limped feebly. I was far behind schedule. I thought I
could not reach the destination before sundown. I managed to arrive at
Koyasu-kannon-do around four o’clock, the time I would have reached Katsuyama.
After a short break, I resumed walking expecting I would reach my destination
in about two hours. As I was inching along the mountain road, it began to snow.
The wind started to blow from all directions. Gradually the snow became
heavier, the wind wilder, obliterating the sight before me. I had to find
somewhere to avoid the snowstorm. Soon the mountain path was covered with incessant
snow. All the tall beech trees surrounding me turned as white as the trees
painted in a Chinese ink-wash painting of winter scenery. In a blink of an eye,
the road disappeared. I was anxious. Icy wind pierced me to the bone like a
blade. My entire body was covered with snow. I was like a snowman. I was icy
cold.
As I was struggling
looking desperately for a shelter in the wild snowstorm, I saw vaguely
something like a cave behind white trees. I forced myself to drag my legs
towards it.
The
cave looked like a decayed stone chamber tomb about a meter wide and 4 meters deep.
It managed to protect me from the blizzard. I trod to the end of the cave, took
out the Buddha statue from the chest, and put it on a niche in the end of the wall.
I sat cross-legged carefully so that I would not hurt my injured leg. I looked
up at the statue and prayed. I felt Buddha’s gentle eyes looking down at me. I
thanked Buddha for saving me in the sea and in the snowstorm.
My body was shivering
with cold. I had to build a fire or I would die from the cold. I gathered dead
branches and fallen leaves. I struck a light with the flint, but however hard I
tried, the charred cloth did not catch the spark. I thought the cloth might be
damp. I had to find a substitute for the cloth. The leaves did not do; they
were damp. I looked around for something that would catch the spark. I hit upon
a good idea: I could use the oiled paper that wrapped the wood sticks.
I took out the paper, struck
the flint, and tried to light it again and again, but failed. I thought the
paper was, strangely enough, damp, too. I was freezing cold. Wasn’t there
anything that would catch the spark? Then I flashed an idea again: I could use
the mandala cloth. The Kongokai Diamond mandara and the Taizokai Womb mandara. But
I couldn’t burn them. To burn them meant to burn hundreds of Buddha images
painted on them.
My fingers were getting
numb from cold. I was afraid. Unless I built a fire as soon as possible, my
fingers would not move smoothly enough to use the flints. My breath turned to frost
instantly. Every time I breathed, the frost stuck around my mouth and cheeks like
a beard. It accumulated on my face. When I touched my cheek, it felt rough. I
had never experienced such icy cold weather. My fingers turned blue and numb. My
sense of touch was dull. I was afraid that the numbness in my fingers would spread
to my hands, to arms, and to my body. I could not lose any time. I had to build
a fire before my hands turned completely numb.
However, I couldn’t
imagine that I would die in such a dark cold chamber. I had so far been saved
by Buddha. Buddha had guarded me. I had been lucky. Buddha would surely save me
as before, I believed. I thought I should not be overanxious. I had to collect
myself. I had to calm down.
I
felt hungry. I had not eaten anything since I had injured my leg. I opened the
chest and tried to take out a bag of dried sweet potatoes with my fingers, but they
did not feel anything. I felt like they were someone else’s. Impatient, I
thrust both hands as deep as where the bag might be, pinched it with my wrists
after several trials, and pulled it out. I rubbed my hands against each other
and put them flat on my chest to warm them up. After a while I successfully opened
the bag and ate some potatoes.
After
I ate them, I thought I had to move my body so that I would not sleep. I tried
to move my arms and head. I tried to twist my body, but I failed for they were
like rocks. I gave up moving.
Soon
I felt sleepy and against my will I fell asleep, but suddenly driven by some
unknown power I awoke. I must not sleep. I would die if I slept. I had a
mission to take the sutra wood sticks to the Nara Court. The snowstorm was still
wild outside the cave.
Wasn’t
there any other way to build a fire without using the mandara cloth? I looked
around for anything that might catch the fire. There was nothing that would do
the job. The mandara cloth was the only solution. I thought Buddha would
forgive me for using it.
I
took out the Kongokai mandara cloth
and tore it into small pieces. I rumpled them hard to make them into cotton-like
material. Then I struck the flint hoping the mandara cotton would catch the fire.
I failed and failed but after a dozen trials the cotton caught the fire and
began to emit smoke. I blew it with care. Suddenly the cotton ignited with
flame. Immediately I put the end of the other mandara cloth over the flame. It
caught fire.
I
carefully placed the rest of the mandara cloth, the oiled paper, fallen leaves,
and dead twigs and branches. At last I succeeded in building a fire. My efforts
were rewarded. The fire warmed my face, hands, and body. It lit the cave. I
felt alive, but at the same time I felt guilty. I felt pain watching the
mandara cloth burning. Now the fire was burning 405 Buddha images painted on the
cloth. And now it was burning the Dainichi
Nyorai Buddha in the center of the
cloth. Damnation!
Soon
I was afraid that the fire would extinguish in no time. I thought I had to get
something to burn. I looked out of the cave. It was dark, still snowing and
blowing hard. I could not go out to get some twigs. It was too cold and even if
I collected some, they were wet and would not catch fire. Even while I was
wondering what to do, the fire was abating. I had to do something to keep the
fire burning. I looked around and saw the chest. That’s it. I grabbed it and
tore it into pieces. I put some on the weakening fire. First they gave off
smoke but soon they started to flame.
Again I was seized with fear. The chest
pieces would soon burn out. I had nothing to burn except the sutra wood sticks.
Was it allowed to burn them? I had already burned two pieces of mandara cloth.
Was it all right for me to burn even the wood sutras? Wasn’t it blaspheming
Buddha? Wouldn’t I fall into hell?
I wondered. I thought if I died there, some
travelers would find the sutra sticks some day. But if I died, who would convey
what I had studied from the monk Bùkōng to the court? Who would tell them what
I had studied from the monk Hui-kuo? Who would introduce the next monk who
would be sent to Tang to Hui-kuo? Who would tell them what I had seen and heard
in the capital of Chang'an? Which would be more important, my survival or sutra
wood sticks? What if no traveler entered that cave? The sticks would decay and
perish. I could recite the three main Sanbu-kyo
sutras and the Heart Sutra. I could
write all of the sutras by heart. If I survived at the cost of the sutra wood
sticks and returned to the court, they would despise me saying, “How sinful to
burn sutras just to warm himself?” But whatever insults they would hurl at me,
I could stand against them. To carry the sutra wood sticks to the court was not
the only mission I had. Anybody could do that. I had a mission to convey what I
had studied in Tang.
I had reached
a conclusion.
I grabbed a
bunch of sutra wood sticks. It was the Heart
Sutra. I
would burn it last, I thought. I grabbed another bunch. It was the Kongocho
Sutra. It described the fundamental spirit of Buddhist Tantrism. I couldn’t
burn it. I would burn it later. The next bunch was the Sotsuji-kyo Sutra. I
could recite it perfectly, but couldn’t take the plunge and burn it. I thought
I couldn’t burn any of them. I watched the weakening fire. Couldn’t I survive
the blizzard without burning them?
The icy wind
blew into the cave hard cutting through my body. The dying fire was flickering.
The cave was getting dark. It felt like I was in the midst of a freezing pond.
I trembled. My breath turned into frost. My spit turned into hail. How cold! I
again felt sleepy. I fell into a doze, and the next moment, I was awakened. I
repeated dozing and awakening. I must not sleep, I told myself.
I made up my
mind: I would burn the Buddhist sutras.
I grabbed the
nearest bunch. It was the Dainichi Sutra. I unlaced the strings
that tied the sticks. The bunch came apart. I picked up one of the sticks and
put it on the embers. It emitted smoke, but soon ignited with flame. It illuminated
the cave warming up my hands and face. Soon the flame abated. I picked another
stick. I saw the sutra written on it. I read it aloud and then burned it. Thus
I burned the Dainichi Sutra wood sticks one after another. Buddha would punish
me. I would fall into the pits of hell. Devils would pull out my tongue. I would
be boiled. I would drown in the blood pond.
Next I burned
the Sotsuji-kyo Sutra, and then
the Kongo-kyo Sutra. A pang of remorse ached in my heart. But what else
could I do? I had no choice.
The
snowstorm, though abated, was still raging. Now I had only one bunch of sutra
sticks, the Heart Sutra. It consisted
of only 262 Chinese characters. They were written on about 30 wood sticks. Looking
at them, I thought my three-year hard study in Tang was condensed on them. I
couldn’t burn them. How could I? But the snowstorm was blowing hard. I must
burn them. I must survive. I should not freeze to death.
The fire was
flickering. I unlaced the strings, held the first stick, and read aloud the sutra
written on it.
Makahanyaharamitashingyo
I put it on
the dying fire. It caught fire and began to burn silently. I picked up the next
stick and read the sutra aloud.
Kanjizaibosatsu
The stick began
to give off smoke. It hated to burn, wriggling and resisting under pain and
sorrow. Soon it spewed flames and charred, and finally was reduced to ashes.
I picked up
another stick. I read the sutra in a trembling but loud voice.
Gyojinhanyaharamitaji
Thus I threw the
sutra sticks into the fire one after another till finally there were only four
sticks left. On them was written the mantra of the Heart Sutra. My eyes were nailed to the sutra characters. I
quivered. I got tense. My throat got dry. I closed my eyes and prayed. Then I
read each character in a strong voice:
Gyatei-gyatei
Hara-gyatei Haraso-gyatei Bojisowaka
My voice
resonated in the cave. I put the sticks on the fire. My heart ached. The last
sutra sticks were turning into ashes. My three-year hard study in Tang was evaporating
in front of my eyes. I had not yet understood the esoteric point of the Heart Sutra, but I was obliterating it.
The last
flickering flame became weaker and weaker until it suddenly vanished, leaving
the cave completely dark. I was disappointed. I was lonely. I hated myself. The
sutra wood sticks had been always with me. I had awoken with them, worked with
them, and went to sleep with them. Now they were irretrievable. Now they had
gone.
I felt a sudden
quietness. I looked out of the cave. The blizzard had stopped. The east sky was
vaguely bright. It was dawn. Soon the sun was rising over the mountain ridge,
sending rays toward the cave through the cloud. I turned around and looked at
the Buddha statue on the wall. It reflected the morning sunlight and glittered.
Struck with awe, I sat up right and prayed:
Gyatei-gyatei
Hara-gyatei Haraso-gyatei Bojisowaka
I felt a profound
stillness. Nothing was heard except for twittering birds. It felt as if all the
sutras jam-packed in my head had disappeared. What had long occupied my brain
had vanished. My head was empty. What was this feeling? I gazed at the Buddha
statue. It looked at me with gentle eyes. I felt relieved from burden. I felt
free from the shackle of sutras. I remembered what Hui-kuo had told me about
the knack of calligraphy: “write freely.” I realized that I had long been bound
with Buddha sutras. I had not been able to step out of the boundary of Buddha
sutras. I realized that if one wanted to really understand sutras, one’s brain must
be free and unbounded. I came to understand the monk Bùkōng’s words: “If you
want to read sutras, don’t try to read them.” The more you made efforts to read
them, the more tightly you would be bound with them. I should not be too eager
to read them. I should read them in an unrestrained relaxed manner. In short, I
should read them freely. How simple! I had been reciting the Buddha sutras again
and again, day after day, as if I had been obsessed by them, without realizing
the simple rule.
The Buddhist wood
sticks were reduced to nothing, but out of nothing came something new.
The sun
illuminated the deepest corner of the cave. The time to start came. I grabbed
the Buddha statue, put it in my bosom kimono pocket, and stepped out of the
cave.
The end
