Mahāyāna Sūtra Message Board.  
For October 2007

Sūtra Extract.

‘The Lotus Sūtra’. Page 46, from the translation by Leon Hurvitz.

……. Since there shall be those who disgrace the pure Aspirants to the Buddha Path;
I must for the likes of these
Broadly praise the Path of the One Vehicle
Śāriputra, be it known that
The Buddhas’ Dharma is like this:
By resort to myriads of millions of expedient devices And in accord with what is appropriate for the situation,
They preach the Dharma;
But they who have not practiced it cannot understand this.
All of you, knowing now
That the Buddhas, the Teachers of the Ages,
In accord with what is peculiarly appropriate have to recourse to expedient devices,
Need have no more doubts or uncertainties.
Your hearts shall give rise to great joy,
Since you know that you yourselves shall become Buddhas…….

Stories from the Old Silk Road.

Introduction

          Most of these stories have been drawn from the tales contained in Buddhist sūtra texts.  Others come from collections of legends in Chinese and Indian popular literature, e.g. items 3 and 9 or from ancient commentaries on canonical material, e.g. items 2 and 5.  All of them travelled along the Old Silk Road which ran between China and north-west India and through central Asia during the first 500 years CE.  They travelled along the route either as written texts being carried into china from India by Buddhist monk teachers, or in the heads of Buddhist sūtra specialists who were en-route to china to avoid repeated invasions by the nomad hordes which ravaged their homeland.
          In the course of time these stories became the stock-in-trade of itinerant storytellers, who journeyed with the caravans in both directions.  They would entertain the travellers by re-telling tales of this kind around the camp fires in the desert wilderness or in the caravanserais.
          Of course, when the tales were told by the storytellers they would be shorn of their scriptural context (unless told by monks) and the details would be embellished and embroidered in time-honoured fashion.  Although the essential point of the story was rarely lost in the telling.
          Such is the case here.  All the stories in this collection were related in popular fashion to members of the London or Luton Zen Centre, and also to assemblies of the Buddhist Society’s summers schools during the period 1980 to 1990.  Such traditional story telling continued to be given, by request, when this writer visits the Luton Zen Centre, up to the present time.
          Apart from the traditional mix of a hero’s exploits and of wondrous events, these stories display an extraordinary degree of warmth and humour, e.g. in items 2, 3, 5 and 21.  It needs to be stressed that such humour is not part of the customary embellishment; it is an integral part of the original scriptural text.  Humour of this kind in scripture is rarely to be found in the major religions other than Buddhism.
          There is not particular sequence to this collection of stories, except for stories numbers 12 and 13.  They have been taken at random from the sources and strung together much as an ancient storyteller would.
          It is to be hoped that the reader will derive as much pleasure and gentle instruction from these stories as this writer did when finding them and re-telling them to others.

Eric Cheetham, June 2005 ©

5
 
(No. 12. of the original sequence from Eric Cheetham’s book)
 
 
The Lost Son

There was, long ago, an Indian merchant of princely wealth and power.  He had but one child, a son, and this boy was so precious to his parents that they quite naturally reared him in cushioned comfort, with servants waiting to meet his every need.  It was also quite natural that as he grew, his self-confidence grew, too, until it was boundless, until he was sure that he knew all there was to know about – everything.

          Indeed, he became sure that he knew much more that his father, whom he privately regarded as something of a bully, and certainly more than his mother, who seemed to him to be a weakling.  So one day came when he decided to leave home and show them that without any help he could become just as rich as his father.  He defiantly set out on his own and disappeared from their lives.

          Years passed and the grieving parents heard nothing of him.  The father, like many another merchant of the time, travelled widely in the course of his trade but, unlike the other merchants, he was also constantly searching for his lost son.  Because of their great wealth, the family had many vast estates around the country, each with fine palaces and parks and gardens.  The father moved from one to the next in great state, in a caravan of carriages drawn by plumed horses, with servants and guards and all the household necessities, and with elephants bearing trunks of jewels, silks and other precious things.  It was an imposing, even intimidating procession.

          One day, his carriage paused at the gates of one of these opulent palaces to let the servants sweep the entrance.  The father stepped down from his carriage and, as he did, his eyes fell on a filthy beggar who was gazing with awe at the glittering caravan.  The father instantly recognised in the ruined face his own son, his lost son.

At that moment, the beggar’s expression changed to fear and he turned and fled.  The excited, joyful father immediately ordered his guards to go after him and bring him back.  But the fleeing beggar, in a passion of fear, believed himself to have angered a king.  After years of failure, then poverty and, finally, beggary, he no longer remembered his father’s face.  He had forgotten his own high origins; he had forgotten his beautiful home.  His only thought now was that the king’s men, these terrifying fighters hard on his heals, with their jewelled swords and daggers at their gleaming belts, were about to kill him.          

So he ran for his life.  He was caught and dragged, crying and screaming, back to the palace gates.  “Let me go”, he begged, “I’m innocent! I’ve done nothing!”  His terror was palpable.  The father saw all this and saw the profound fear gripping his son.  He knew it would kill him.  He ordered his guards to let him go.  The beggar fled into the village alleyways.

          The father realised that although he had found his beloved son, his lost child, there could be no reunion, no homecoming in the presence of this fear.  So he ordered his guards to change their uniforms for filthy, tattered work clothes and find the beggar.  They were then to befriend him and offer him work, any kind of work that he was willing to do.  Above all, they were to stay with him.

          The guards did as they were bid.  In the guise of lowly workers they found the frightened man in the next village and fell to chatting with him.  He was recovering from his terror, feeling lucky to be alive, and agreed readily when his new friends suggested he come along to a place where all of them could find work.

          They took him to the outhouses of his father’s estate, avoiding the main gates so that he wouldn’t recognise where he was.  Then he was told that the work would be easy and regular, the pay good, and the master fair and generous.  He was set to sweeping the yards, to cleaning up all the muck and dirt and dung.

          The man was delighted; this kind of work he’d been doing for years wherever he could find it, but here he could do it over and over again in the same place; and when night fell, a corner of a pigsty for his own!  He swept faithfully and diligently, quite content; he didn’t care for whom he swept all this muck, so long as each night he was safe and unafraid.

          After many months of patient observations, the merchant decided on a move.  He, too, took off his silken robes and jewelled head –dress and put on the tattered rags of a workman.  Smearing his face with grime, he went down into the yard and swept muck beside his son.  In time, they began to talk.  The disguised father said he was the head sweeper, in charge of all sweepers.

          “Have no fear,” he said.  “I’ve watched you for some time and I know that you’re a good worker.  I just wanted to make myself known to you.  I will continue to watch you and occasionally lend a hand, so don’t try to play any tricks,”

          The son accepted this news quite calmly and the two settled into a peaceful relationship, the father coming often in his work clothes to sweep beside his son, chatting amiably.

          Years went by like this.  The father persisted with great patience in his role as comradely supervisor.  He saw that at first the younger man was unafraid only when sweeping busily in his familiar yard, alone.  If a guard or a stranger, or anyone from the estate approached, he would flee in fear into the pigsty.  As time passed, he became gradually, slowly, less fearful, until he could talk to fellow workers without signs of panic.

          So one day the father decided that the moment for another move had come.  He now changed his disguise to that of the master, not sumptuously rich as he truly was, but moderately wealthy.  He dispatched an aide to the yard to bring the grimy sweeper before him.  At this novel summons, the son was flooded with anxiety.  “Have I done wrong?” he wondered.  “I must have done something terribly wrong for the master to want to see me!”  Even though he knew his master to have been fair with him throughout all these years, and according to the friendly supervisor, very satisfied with his work.  He was still terrified of anything unknown.

          But of course he went with the aide, suffering torments of fear and anxiety.  However, this is what his master said:
          “I’ve been watching your work, my man, and I can see that you’re honest and diligent.  You can be trusted.  I value such servants.  Now I want you to do something different.  I am growing old and I have no son to carry on my affairs.  So I am going to show you how to look after my counting house, my in-goings and out-goings.  We’ll see how you get on with it – we’ll give you very good training.  When I see that you’re fully competent and well able for it, not before, I will want you to take on full responsibility.”

          The son was overjoyed that he wasn’t to be punished for some unknown crime.  So he entered training as a steward.  For this he cleaned himself up but each night he returned to his pigsty.

          In time, he became adept at his work and earned his master’s confidence.  He was consulted more and more on financial questions.  After years of steady growth, he became chief steward, in charge of all the estate.  His master was full of praise for his soundness and reliability.  But even so, the son suffered keen anxiety before every encounter with him, still frightened.  He felt always on trial, unsure of who he was.  And still, every night, and even though now the chief steward, he crept into his sty to sleep.

          By now his father felt himself growing old.  It saddened him to see his son, so successful at his work, still separated from his rightful place, living in a pigsty. He called the younger man to him, therefore, and instructed him to organise a public gathering in the main courtyard.  He must invite all the people of the estates, all the townspeople, and anyone else having business with the family.  There was to be a most important announcement.

          The day came and the father put off the mundane clothing, suited to the master of an ordinary estate, and dressed again in sumptuous silks and jewelled head-dress.  When all were gathered in the courtyard, he entered in majestic procession and took his place on a throne upon a dais.  His chief steward, recognising him, fell upon his knees.  He listened with out fear to his father’s words:

          “The time has come to appoint a successor to my fortunes.  Every man would hope to pass his estates to his son.  For a long time it has been thought that there is no son in this family; but in fact this is not true.  Many years ago I had a son.  This son left his home and became lost to me.  After long searching however, he was found and although he did not know me then, he will know me now.  We have worked side by side on these estates for decades; he has learned to trust me and so, when I now tell him, my chief steward, who he really is, he will believe me.  He is my lost son and he must now rise up and take his place beside me on this dais.”

          No longer afraid, the son arose and joined his father.  He knew where he belonged.  When night fell, he slept at home.

____________________

We apologise for being so late with the Message Board this month.  We are all very busy preparing the history of the progress of Buddhism from India, along the Silk Road into Central Asia and China. We hope to be able to present these binders in the very near future.

Copyright © Eric Cheetham 2005     

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