Dharma StreamWu Aizhen began to feel a strange cold all over her body, as though she had fallen into an ice cellar. Her mind grew heavy and dull. She was dimly aware that she was in a vehicle and that it was moving, but very soon even that awareness seemed separated from her by a lifetime. She was wrapped in layer upon layer of mist, unable to tell one direction from another, pushing through the fog, feeling utterly spent. Suddenly she discovered that beneath her lay a boundless sea. The water was black, and at its center a massive whirlpool gaped like the mouth of a demon waiting to swallow her. The surrounding seawater churned and boiled, belching poisonous fumes of every color that ate into her airways. She felt her lungs rotting. Then, in an instant, she plunged into the whirlpool. She fought with all her strength, but the poisoned water began eating away at her flesh, and the harder she struggled, the deeper she sank. She could see no light. She was enveloped by a heavy, impenetrable darkness and pressed down to the freezing ocean floor. At that moment, a flash of gold flared before her eyes. A golden dragon burst from the seabed and soared upward, its glittering golden radiance illuminating the dark, cold depths. It came at her almost roaring, almost in fury, as though she had disturbed its rest. Ravaged by the corrosive poison and terrified of the darkness, she had no other choice. She threw her arms around the dragon’s sleek back. The dragon was instantly subdued, as if it had recognized an old friend. It lowered its head and passed it gently beneath her chest, then slowly lifted her. With a long, resonant cry, it shot out of the whirlpool and into the air. Weak and limp, she lay draped across the dragon’s back as it sped through the poisonous fumes …
A thread of cool air suddenly pierced through her mind and reached the depths of her heart, carrying a faint sweetness… She opened her eyes. In the blur, there was nothing but white, and then a human face. Where had she seen this face before? She searched the far reaches of her mind, but her head throbbed as though it would split …
“You’re awake?!” The voice was low and gentle. Yamaguchi Mingchuan—the name suddenly surfaced in her mind, and she came fully to.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan was sitting beside her bed, leaning toward her, and one of her hands was tightly clutching his arm. She released it at once and felt a stiffness and soreness in her fingers; she had no idea how long she had been gripping him. Yamaguchi Mingchuan smiled, unconcerned, lifted that arm, kneaded it with his other hand, and straightened up.
She understood now that she was in a hospital. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose. An IV drip hung from her left arm. Several wires trailed from her chest to a machine at the head of the bed—a monitor, she knew.
A woman doctor came in, checked the instrument readings, and said to Yamaguchi Mingchuan, “She’s out of danger. Heart rhythm, oxygen saturation, blood pressure—all normal. Get a chest X-ray this afternoon and we’ll check again. You ought to get some rest yourself, don’t you think?”
The woman doctor beamed as she looked down at Wu Aizhen lying in the bed, slipped a hand under the blanket, and deftly placed a thermometer in her armpit. Then she straightened up, glanced at her watch, and said, “It’s already nine-thirty. In a little while, see what the patient feels like eating. She can have something—she’s far too weak.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan nodded and agreed.
“Your husband is so good to you—sat here the whole night, keeping you company,” the woman doctor said as she checked the drip rate. She seemed to mean it as comfort, a way to cheer Wu Aizhen up a little.
The doctor’s words struck Wu Aizhen’s heart. With the oxygen mask over her mouth, she could not speak, but she cast a grateful glance at Yamaguchi Mingchuan.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan only smiled at her and offered the doctor no explanation. But Wu Aizhen sensed something bashful in his smile, something vaguely ambiguous and intimate, while a quick, intelligent gleam flashed in his bright eyes. Wu Aizhen could detect not a trace of fatigue on his face or in his eyes; on the contrary, he looked as radiant with energy as someone who had just woken from sleep. She found it puzzling. This man seemed an entirely different person from the “Demon King” she had known.
Keiko burst through the door, a thermos container in each hand.
“Ah! Auntie, you’re awake! I knew you’d be all right. Last night I dreamed the cherry blossoms all over Japan were blooming—drifting and floating through the sky, turning the whole heavens and the whole earth red—and I knew you’d recover.”
As she spoke, Keiko set the thermos containers on a chair, then leaned over the hospital bed and looked into Wu Aizhen’s eyes, her pure face radiant with a holy light.
“Dad, I had the hotel kitchen make clear-stewed Tibetan chicken and a portion of noodles for Auntie Aizhen. I’ve already eaten. You should go out, get something to eat, and rest. I’ll stay with Auntie Aizhen today.”
Keiko’s heart was like crystal, Wu Aizhen thought.
“Keiko, don’t chatter so much in front of your auntie. She’s still very weak and needs quiet rest,” Yamaguchi Mingchuan admonished her approvingly.
“Dad! Uncle Haizi’s car is waiting for you at the hospital entrance.”
“I know,” Yamaguchi Mingchuan said as he walked out of the hospital room.
This was probably the most luxurious hotel in the city. By the time Yamaguchi Mingchuan had finished his meal and entered the guest room that had been booked for him, it was already noon. He thought he would take a short nap before returning to the hospital. Wu Aizhen’s illness no longer appeared to be serious.
Lying on the bed, he suddenly felt a tender ache in his right arm. He rolled up his sleeve and saw several distinct finger marks; two of them, where the nails seemed to have dug in too deeply, had broken the skin. He wondered how the woman could have such a strong grip.
There had been little of the “knight in shining armor” or of romantic sentiment in his rescue and care of Wu Aizhen—it did not even qualify as an act of noble courage. For him, it had been no more than a few phone calls to settle the matter, the work of a moment.
But from the moment he had decided to stay overnight at the scenic area the evening before, he sensed that he was once again going against the way he had always done things. A single short day in Wu Aizhen’s company, a whole journey of aimless idle talk—this woman’s words, he felt, kept touching something deep inside him, something he could neither grasp nor articulate. He spent the entire trip pondering everything she said. When the car broke down that night, he could have made a single phone call and had a vehicle come for him, but he did not. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be alone with this woman. She had stirred his curiosity—the only woman in all these years he could not see through at a glance. Wisdom burst forth from her every gesture, her every word. At night when she came to his room for oxygen, he watched her calm face faintly flushed with a sickly ruddiness, her eyes gazing out the window, clear and bright as an autumn moon… And when she wept, it was as though an autumn dewfall had gathered into mist and suddenly brimmed over her eyelids, hanging like pearls all along her cheeks. In the dim lamplight of the room, it seemed an angel sat before him, her white clothes giving off a holy radiance that set off her nobility. In that instant, a male urge for conquest rose within him, a desire to possess her, to trample her, taking hold of his thoughts. She had offered him no temptation of desire, yet her purity enraged his lust, and a wicked impulse rose from the bottom of his heart. Even if this were a holy flower, he would tear her to pieces. It was as though anything perfectly pure needed to be broken, to be destroyed. And he did not believe—did not believe there was any holiness in this world. It was all false marks, a disguise. He felt he had suddenly seen through this woman’s mask, and inside him there was a suppressed, maniacal laugh. The blood began rushing to his head, his eyes filling with a light of depraved lust. It was her anger and the act of her rising that snapped him awake. She stood up, her eyes and face ice-cold, an inviolable righteousness about her that sobered him somewhat.
Thinking this, Yamaguchi Mingchuan shook his head. Perhaps he had truly drunk too much the day before. He had assumed highland barley wine could not make a person drunk. Or maybe he had eaten too much mutton, which had given him impulses he could not control. Otherwise, how could he have lost his composure in front of this woman?
In the car the night before, the woman had at first leaned groggily against his shoulder, but the road was so rough that several times she nearly pitched off the seat. He went ahead and gathered her into his arms. Then suddenly her hands clasped tightly around his neck, her chest pressed hard against his, scalding his chest. And her arms clamped around him so fiercely he could barely move. The woman was convulsing, trembling, and he felt a boundless terror transmitting from her heart. Her frail, unconscious body, offering not the slightest resistance, was like an infant wrapped in white cloth—an infant burning with fever. Before Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s eyes there suddenly rose up a pair of terrified eyes. They belonged to a child of seven or eight, straining in terror to make out everything in the darkness. He was locked in a dank, pitch-black room; outside, waves crashed against the shore with a rushing roar; inside, rats squeaked. The boy crouched in a corner of the room, burning with fever. In his delirium he cried out, “Papa, Papa.” Suddenly, the moon broke through the dark clouds, and a thread of moonlight spilled in through the window. The child, his eyes half-shut with fever, gazed up in wondering delight at that ray of light. The hazy moonlight was soft—so soft it reminded him of his mother’s hand. But that hand only flickered once far off and then vanished… The child had lost his object of love. That child was Yamaguchi Mingchuan as a boy. He thought further of snowy winters when he ran barefoot through the snow. Cold and hungry, he once saw a woman pass by carrying a curly-haired little dog, the dog’s eyes swiveling restlessly from the folds of her mink coat. A sudden impulse seized him: he wanted to pull that dog out and strangle it. He had also been forced in the dead of winter to jump into freezing lake water and swim; the first time, his whole heart contracted into a frozen knot. Those were punishments for mistakes he had made, and training as well. And the severe Japanese kendo master, the boxing master who battered him black and blue day after day, the fight with a cobra during survival training on a deserted island off Thailand—all of it rose before him in a stream of images …
After he had undergone every test of mind and body and returned to Japan, the moment he laid eyes on a cherry tree, he felt an urge to draw his sword. He believed a single stroke could sever the tree at its roots. There was no particular reason for this—it was simply that his body seemed to have stored up too much energy, and he wanted to destroy everything. Especially anything whose beauty stung his eyes. His heart was filled with a desire to conquer all, and those petals, in his gaze, were drops of blood bursting open!
In the car, Yamaguchi Mingchuan lowered his head and studied the unconscious woman in his arms. In his heart, very few people could occupy even a corner of space—only himself dwelled there. When it came to Keiko, what he felt was, most of the time, a father’s duty and responsibility, something his own father had passed down to him. Perhaps there was also the pull of the blood tie, making him cherish her despite himself. But what, then, did he feel for this woman? She seemed to have awakened in him some tremulous emotion; every now and then something about her would touch his heart, sending a faint quake through him. So he was not made of iron and stone after all.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan lay on the bed, his thoughts a jumble, and fell asleep. His body was turned onto the right side, his right hand beneath his right cheek, his thumb pressing a point behind his ear. His left arm rested lightly along his left side, the fingers forming a mudra. One leg was extended, the other slightly bent; he looked very relaxed, very natural. This sleeping posture had been taught to him by a Japanese dhyāna master, and for decades, whenever he slept alone, he had kept to it. He felt that this posture kept the body’s energy from scattering too much, even in dreams. He believed that maintaining a fixed habit over long stretches would shape a person’s temperament and cast of mind.
Wu Aizhen drank some chicken soup and fell asleep again. The room she was staying in was the best in the hospital—bright and sunlit, set in a quiet corner, a single room. Keiko sat in a chair, gazing quietly at Wu Aizhen’s face. Her fever had just broken, and her face looked extraordinarily drawn and pale; just one day of illness seemed to have hollowed out her cheeks. Long lashes lay against her closed eyelids, and the dark circles beneath her eyes looked almost like eyeshadow. Her nose was straight and beautiful, as if it had been sculpted out of plaster and placed there, except that plaster is lifeless while this nose was full of vitality and spirit. Her mouth was a little wide, with distinct, clear-cut lines, resolutely closed, the corners turned faintly upward. The face felt familiar to Keiko—as though she had seen it somewhere before. Wu Aizhen’s hair was slightly disheveled. Usually she pinned it up in a bun, but now it had come partly loose and fallen around her face; a strand lay across her forehead, and within it was a single conspicuous white hair.
“She’s only thirty, and she already has a white hair.” Through it, Keiko seemed to see a trace of Wu Aizhen’s melancholy.
Auntie Aizhen is really beautiful, Keiko thought. She didn’t know whether to call her Big Sister or Auntie. If she called her Big Sister, then Father would be Auntie Wu’s elder; if she called her Auntie, she felt the woman was still too young. Neither felt right. In the end she decided on Auntie. It had nothing to do with her age—Keiko sensed that her learning and talent were more than enough to be her elder. Besides, deep down Keiko rather liked her; she felt she was like a mother. Keiko had never met her own mother. In her father’s eyes she could see loving kindness.
But within that loving kindness there was an authority that kept her from acting spoiled or acting on impulse. And sometimes, when she looked into her father’s eyes, beneath the loving kindness there seemed to be a deep abyss or a black hole; the light of that loving kindness was only a reflection at the mouth of the cave. She could not fathom what lay at the bottom of his heart, and the lurking darkness there filled her with dread.
Wu Aizhen, however, gave her the exact opposite feeling. She was eighteen now, not a naive child; she had already tasted first love, and she would not naively like or trust a foreign woman she had met by chance. Yet Wu Aizhen gave her a special feeling she had never known before. In Wu Aizhen’s words, this was affinity—an affinity that crosses age, crosses national borders, crosses time and space. Wu Aizhen’s wisdom drew her deeply; she had penetrating, original views on so many questions. What Keiko liked most was that she was completely unpretentious, utterly natural and open; her words seemed to murmur straight from her heart, without the usual worldly disguises. Wu Aizhen had once said this was only one side of her, but at the very least it was the side she had shown Keiko. There was also a natural gentleness about Wu Aizhen. She was nothing like those women who speak in simpering tones, who sway like willows when they walk, who flirt and smile with myriad charms, casting amorous glances in every direction, all coquettishness and coy allure, and then sometimes turn prim and sit bolt upright like proper ladies. Wu Aizhen was not like that at all. Everything about her was natural. Every frown, every smile, every flash of anger, every flare of fury—all of it gave Keiko a sense of a woman’s unique charm, a gentleness born of non-action, like water, like moonlight, like the shadow of willows, like drifting catkins, like white clouds, like a bell swinging in the wind. Most of the time she was simply still. Keiko loved sitting with her when she was in that state; that stillness was quietly contagious, making her feel the peace and comfort of an infant resting in its mother’s arms. Of course, Keiko had never had that firsthand experience as an infant; she only shared in the joy and serenity that radiated from this stillness. Beside her, her heart grew very warm, very at ease; she longed to close her eyes and rest forever in that atmosphere.
Keiko had heard the saying, “Great love has no words.” Perhaps the peace that Wu Aizhen transmitted was also a kind of love—a wordless love that Keiko could not understand. It encompassed and transcended everything that human language could describe, becoming simply a silent felt awareness and experience.
Wu Aizhen had spoken to her about the nothingness and emptiness that come after profound stillness. Keiko had not understood at the time, but now, from this sensing and experience of wordless love without any action, she suddenly sensed the emptiness Wu Aizhen had talked about.
“When Auntie Wu gets better, I’m going to study the Buddha-dharma with her.” The thought suddenly arose in Keiko’s mind. If it were possible, she wanted to stay in China. Then she thought of her mother in Macau. She had heard about her from Grandma and had it confirmed by Uncle Dazuo. But would Father agree? At the thought of Yamaguchi Mingchuan, a shadow passed through Keiko’s heart. Father had practically no family besides her; the idea of leaving him made Keiko’s heart ache.
If only Father could like Auntie Wu, Keiko thought naively. There was no shortage of women around Father, yet he seemed to like none of them—this was something Keiko had never been able to understand. Father was too strong; he never knew how to cherish a beautiful woman. A few years ago, one of Father’s friends had introduced him to an actress, Keiko’s idol, who not only acted wonderfully in films but also sang beautifully. Yet Keiko heard her father say dismissively that he despised that kind of “beauty.” She had no idea what kind of woman could make Father fall in love. Keiko looked at Wu Aizhen, sleeping heavily in a stupor, and thought that although Auntie Wu was wonderful, her circumstances were too ordinary; Father would not like her the way Keiko did. And with the distance between them, they might soon find themselves worlds apart. At this thought, a wave of dejection washed over Keiko.
Wu Aizhen had been in the hospital for more than half a month now. Keiko had hardly left her side, tending her day and night with scarcely any rest. A simple cot and a small desk had been added to the room. Besides accompanying Wu Aizhen through various tests and treatments, Keiko spent her time at the little desk writing her thesis. She considered Wu Aizhen quite accomplished in Buddhist studies, and Wu Aizhen had become her advisor. Keiko had now switched to calling her “Teacher.” Wu Aizhen didn’t bother with false modesty; she simply shared with Keiko the insights she had gained from over a decade of Buddhist study and practice, hoping to help her write a thesis with original viewpoints—nothing more.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan came by often during the daytime, and Keiko would go out to shop or take a stroll for a while. Wu Aizhen’s pneumonia had been complicated by a pleural infection, and fluid had accumulated in her chest cavity; with concurrent bronchial and tracheal inflammation, she was bedridden for over ten days, living on oxygen. But day by day, her condition slowly improved.
Today Nima came, bringing with him a woman in her thirties and a tall, skinny boy. Nima had visited once since Wu Aizhen was hospitalized and had called a few times; this was his second trip to the hospital. Wu Aizhen and Keiko had guessed right—the woman was the civil servant nine years his junior whom Nima had mentioned, and the boy was his son. The boy did not look much like him in features, but in spirit he was unmistakably Nima’s. Keiko pronounced him “drop-dead gorgeous.”
“My girlfriend Zhuoma and my son Xuedan,” Nima introduced them to Keiko and Wu Aizhen. “They heard me talk about you and wanted to come meet both of you. Where’s your father?” he asked. Keiko was holding the large bouquet of carnations Zhuoma had brought, looking for a place to put it. “He went out.”
“Your father is really something. Xuedan just graduated from university this year. He doesn’t want to study anymore—he wants to go back to Tibet. I was hoping to ask your father to help him find a job. Seems like your father has some serious connections in Tibet.” To Wu Aizhen’s surprise, Nima came straight to the point and laid out his purpose without any preamble.
Keiko was delighted and said at once, “I’ll talk to my father. He should be back any minute.” Just as the words left her mouth, Yamaguchi Mingchuan pushed open the door and walked in.
“Brother, you’re back. I came today to ask you for a favor. This is my son Xuedan, the one studying at university in Beijing. He doesn’t want to go abroad for further study—he wants to come back to Tibet to work. Didn’t you say you have a branch office in Tibet? Are you hiring? Or maybe you could help him find a job somewhere.”
The way Nima asked for a favor—so impatient, blurting everything out in one breath—was a complete revelation to Wu Aizhen. Xuedan, embarrassed by his father’s way of doing things, only nodded at Yamaguchi Mingchuan and said politely, “Hello, Uncle.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan looked at Xuedan, the trace of a smile on his face, and said vaguely, “Good, good. I’ll help.” He did not seem to find anything out of place.
Nima immediately turned to Zhuoma, beaming. “See? What did I tell you—whenever I run into trouble, a benefactor shows up to help.”
Zhuoma smiled and said, “Yes, you do often meet benefactors.” It was hard to tell whether she meant it as praise or gentle mockery.
“Keiko and her father are good people. They met Dr. Wu by chance, and look how much they’ve done for her. And they’re foreigners—what would fellow countrymen do by comparison?” Nima spoke from the heart, full of admiration. “I like Brother Mingchuan. When you talk to him, you don’t have to beat around the bush. He’s a straight shooter.” Zhuoma and Xuedan both gazed at Yamaguchi Mingchuan with admiration, as if they were looking at China’s Lei Feng himself. Yamaguchi Mingchuan smiled and offered no explanation.
“Brother, I’ve also brought you a gift.” At these words, Zhuoma reached into a large backpack beside her and took out something wrapped in red silk, handing it to Nima. From its shape, it was a short knife.
Nima unfolded the cloth. Both Wu Aizhen and Yamaguchi Mingchuan were secretly startled.
It was Nima’s heirloom Tibetan knife, the very thing Yamaguchi Mingchuan had once tried to buy at a high price.
“Brother, a fine blade belongs with a hero. This knife has been passed down in my family, but whenever I hung it at home, I kept having nightmares. That means I have no karmic connection with it. Since you like it, I’m giving it to you. But aside from admiring you and wanting to call you a friend, I’m also hoping you’ll help Xuedan find a job—consider this a small token of thanks in advance.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan took the knife, and like old friends reunited after a long parting, his eyes shone with surprised delight. He gently stroked the scabbard and the hilt.
“Good! Nima! Since you’re so straightforward, I won’t stand on ceremony with you. I’ll take the knife—I do truly like it. Your son’s job is on me.”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan wrapped the knife back up in the cloth. The knife was his now. Wu Aizhen could not quite process what she had just seen; she stared, nearly dumbfounded. This kind of transaction between men—so blunt, so direct, so naked, yet somehow carrying a rough code of loyalty and honor—felt to her like one of those sworn-brotherhood deals out of a gangster film. Did Nima even understand who Yamaguchi Mingchuan was? How could he trust him so completely, handing over a family heirloom so casually—and to a Japanese man, no less, as Nima himself had once put it. But the moment the thought crossed her mind, Wu Aizhen felt ashamed. How could she think such a thing? Whatever Yamaguchi Mingchuan did for a living, however dark and cold she had glimpsed the depths of his heart to be, the fact remained that he and his daughter had looked after her with the most meticulous care for over ten days—especially Keiko, who had nursed her day and night. She already had no way to repay them. It was true that she and Keiko had hit it off at once, close as sisters, but they had met by chance and known each other only a short time. For them to go to such lengths to rescue someone in danger and tend to the sick, and to pour out such loving care—that in itself was enough to earn Nima’s admiration.
Perhaps it was on this basis alone that Nima, good-hearted and forthright, was willing to confide his troubles in them, and to bestow his treasure upon friends bound by mutual loyalty, without caring overmuch about how things would turn out. Or perhaps Nima had already done his homework and discovered that Yamaguchi Mingchuan was a man whose reach extended everywhere—who could say? Otherwise, why would Yamaguchi Mingchuan and Keiko have kept their identities hidden all along? From the special treatment she had received since being admitted and from the hotel where Yamaguchi Mingchuan was staying, Wu Aizhen could tell that this Tibetan friend Mingchuan had mentioned, the one helping them out, was no ordinary person either.
Keiko and Xuedan had struck up a conversation. Keiko seemed unusually excited today; as she listened to Xuedan speak, she leaned slightly forward from her usually demure posture, and her eyes shone with undisguised yearning, a hunger to learn everything there was to know about him. Their talk turned to the Dharma, and Xuedan said he found the Buddhist expression of time and space utterly inconceivable. Keiko asked him to explain just what he found so inconceivable about it.
Xuedan said, “In the sutras, the Chinese word for ‘world’ is built from two characters and already contains the concepts of time and space. It is said, ‘The temporal is the flow of passing time; the spatial is location and direction.’ The east, south, west, north, southeast, southwest, northeast, and northwest make up the spatial; past, future, and present make up the temporal. Whenever Buddhism speaks of a world, it speaks of a Billion World System. Do you know how vast a Billion World System is? The Buddhist explanation: take a single world illuminated by the same sun and moon as one basic unit. One thousand basic units make one Small Thousand Worlds; one thousand Small Thousand Worlds make one Medium Thousand Worlds; one thousand Medium Thousand Worlds make one Great Thousand Worlds. Because a Great Thousand World contains the Small, Medium, and Great Thousand Worlds—three kinds of thousand—it is called a Billion World System. That is one world multiplied by a thousand to the third power, equaling one billion worlds.”
Xuedan paused here and looked at Keiko, who was listening intently, then continued: “Buddhism measures distance in yojanas. One yojana is said to be thirty li or sixty li; according to the great master Xuan Zang, it is the distance an ancient Indian army could march in a day. Let us take one yojana as sixty li for the sake of calculation. The sutras say the distance between the centers of two basic-unit worlds is one million two hundred three thousand four hundred fifty yojanas, which is seventy-two million one hundred forty-seven thousand li. The scope of a billion worlds—the Billion World System—is truly so vast it defies imagination.
“And in the cosmos, the Billion World Systems as numerous as the sands of the Ganges make up only a single larger ‘Buddha world.’ Using that ‘Buddha world’ as a basic unit, it takes as many ‘Buddha worlds’ as there are sands of the Ganges to form one ‘Buddha world ocean’; and again it takes as many ‘Buddha world oceans’ as the sands of the Ganges to form one ‘Buddha world seed.’ The immeasurable and boundless Buddha world seeds of the Ten Directions then constitute one ‘reward-body Buddha world.’ That one ‘reward-body Buddha world’ is the infinite itself. The ‘Buddha-land’ composed of these infinite worlds, also called the ‘Flower Store World,’ extends throughout the Ten Directions, boundless, uncountable, inconceivable.”
Keiko’s face registered astonishment.
“Buddhism’s concept of time is even more inconceivable, commonly measured in kalpas, with small kalpas, medium kalpas, and great kalpas. One kalpa is said to equal 4.32 billion human years; others say one small kalpa is 16.798 million years. Twenty small kalpas make one medium kalpa; four medium kalpas make one great kalpa, which then equals 1.34384 billion years.
“That is the measure of long spans. Short time units are expressed in ‘one kshana,’ said to be one sixty-fifth of the time it takes a strong man to snap his fingers—calculated today as 0.013 seconds.
“Buddhist space also often speaks of the Thirty-three Heavens, that is, thirty-three dimensions of space.
“In its teachings on microscopic space, Buddhism also says ‘a mustard seed can contain Mount Sumeru,’ or ‘within a single hair-tip, the buddha-lands of the Ten Directions appear, seated within a mote of dust, one turns the great Dharma wheel’—truly beyond imagination.”
“I know, I know,” Keiko said. “Teacher Wu said that’s because both the mustard seed and Mount Sumeru have the nature of emptiness, so they do not obstruct each other.”
Xuedan stopped talking and looked at Keiko with admiring eyes. Keiko immediately blushed, stuck out her tongue, and turned to look at Wu Aizhen. “Teacher, is that right?”
Wu Aizhen smiled and said, “Yes, but if we truly look from the perspective of Buddhist multi-dimensional space, there is actually no mustard seed containing Mount Sumeru, nor Mount Sumeru containing the mustard seed, because both the mustard seed and Mount Sumeru are naturally and independently manifesting within the Dharma Realm. Only from the human perspective does it seem like the mustard seed is placed inside Mount Sumeru, or Mount Sumeru inside the mustard seed. In truth, all things in the Dharma Realm are independently manifesting phenomena. Take a cup of water: from the human perspective, it looks like water being held in a cup, but from the viewpoint of the Dharma Realm, it is merely water and cup appearing simultaneously at a certain dimension and a certain time and space—you could just as well say the cup is placed within the water. Extending this to a human being: if you observe a person from a multi-dimensional spatial perspective, every organ, the blood, breath, bones, nerves, and each cell of that person all manifest independently in the form of earth, water, fire, and wind within multi-dimensional space, appearing to have no connection with one another, and without any ‘self’ inside them. These naturally manifesting phenomena appear simultaneously at a certain point in human time and space because of ‘I,’ and in the human realm they further exhibit the laws of mutual generation and mutual restraint, of dependent origination—this then constitutes a ‘person.’ The ‘I’ is the ‘dependent origination’ of this ‘person,’ and at this point this ‘I’ is a karma-bearing ‘I,’ or a ‘karma-bearing consciousness.’ If the force of karma dissipates, this ‘I’ is no longer merely the dependent origination of one person, but becomes ’emptiness,’ becoming the dependent origination of all ‘earth, water, fire, wind’ and so on in the Dharma Realm. At that moment, one attains the state of the Buddha’s Dharmakaya. One realizes that all sentient beings possess the wisdom and virtue of the Tathagata, that all sentient beings are Buddhas, and the great loving-kindness and great compassion that see all sentient beings as equal.”
“Teacher, could you write all this out for me so I can slowly reflect on it? I’ve never been able to understand the Buddhist concept of ‘no-self in persons.'”
Xuedan’s eyes sparkled as he fixed them on Wu Aizhen, his face full of doubt; clearly, he had grasped very little of the viewpoint Wu Aizhen had derived from multi-dimensional observation.
“All right, I’ll help you organize it. You two go on talking,” Wu Aizhen said, smiling apologetically at Xuedan. She swept her gaze around the room and noticed that only Yamaguchi Mingchuan seemed to be pondering her words with concentration; everyone else looked blank, with no idea what she had just been talking about.
Keiko’s attention had long since returned to Xuedan. Her voice held a touch of exaggerated excitement as she exclaimed in admiration, “Wow! Xuedan, how can you remember things so clearly? All those numbers—I’m dizzy just listening. You really are a math major, and your eloquence is just as impressive.”
Hearing Keiko praise Xuedan, Nima’s face immediately broke into a broad, radiant smile. “Xuedan has always been excellent at math, and his memory is astonishing—almost photographic. He never forgets anything he sees,” he said with pride.
That was why Xuedan had chosen mathematics at university; only after graduating and looking for work did he realize how narrow the field was. At this, Nima, his pride wilting a little, glanced at Yamaguchi Mingchuan, who remained noncommittal, as though lost in thought.
“Dad, back then you were the one who wanted me to go to the sports academy.” Xuedan paid no attention to his father’s inner anxieties and frustrations.
“That’s right! Xuedan was a fast runner. The director of the city sports academy was a friend of mine. He spotted Xuedan’s talent and was determined to take him on as a special trainee. Xuedan absolutely refused. Who knows—if you’d gone to the sports academy back then, you might have ended up a world champion in long-distance running by now.” Nima teased his son.
“As a kid, I really was lightning fast, and mischievous too. Once I chased a dog, and the dog finally stopped, both front paws flat on the ground, tongue lolling, panting hard, and turned its head to roll its eyes at me, like it was saying: I’m done. You’ve got guts, kid, running that fast—keep running!”
As Xuedan told this story, he acted out the dog rolling its eyes in exasperation, and the imitation was pitch-perfect. Keiko was so amused she collapsed onto the edge of Wu Aizhen’s hospital bed and didn’t move for a long moment. Zhuoma, laughing, hurried over to pat her on the back, afraid she’d pass out from laughing.
When Keiko lifted her head, she had laughed until tears came. Everyone was amused by Xuedan’s story and performance too. But Xuedan himself did not laugh. He only watched Keiko quietly as she doubled over, the innocence and alertness peculiar to boys shining in his eyes. Xuedan’s eyes were handsome, clear, and extraordinarily expressive. A Tibetan boy blessed with both looks and talent, Wu Aizhen thought to herself.
Wu Aizhen noticed that Yamaguchi Mingchuan had not laughed either. There was only the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he leaned against the doorframe, watching this boy who raced dogs with keen interest. Wu Aizhen could not tell what he was thinking, but it seemed as though his heart remained deeply sealed away, as if these shallow human amusements—the banter and bustle, the warmth and goodwill—could never penetrate the closed barrier around him. He had no interest in them. He could not blend into this peaceful, ordinary life.
By now Keiko and Xuedan were talking freely about everything under the sun. It was clear that Xuedan’s humor, quick wit, and talent had thoroughly conquered Keiko.
“Who gave you your name? Xuedan—it’s very distinctive.”
“I gave it to him. It snowed the day Xuedan was born, and ‘Dan’ is the first character of my wife’s name, Danzeng Zhuma.” Nima answered for his son at once.
When Zhuoma heard this, she looked at Nima with reverence and adoration, as though the deep devotion toward his wife that his tone conveyed had moved her to admiration and envy. After Nima finished speaking, he cast an affectionate glance at Zhuoma as well, and smiled…
Nima and his group were about to take their leave. Yamaguchi Mingchuan told Xuedan to prepare a résumé and asked whether he had ever considered going abroad or working in one of the southern cities—Macau, Hong Kong, or Guangdong and Shenzhen. Xuedan said he hadn’t thought that far ahead. If possible, his first choice would still be to return to Lhasa, in Tibet. As for the other places, he would think them over.
Keiko was reluctant to part. Thinking quickly, she said, “Xuedan, if you’re free tomorrow, could you bring over those Buddhist books you mentioned? I’d like to take a look.” Xuedan said, “Sure, I’ll drop them off tomorrow afternoon.” A ripple of quiet delight stirred in Keiko’s heart.
After everyone had gone, Keiko turned to Wu Aizhen, brimming with excitement. “Teacher, do you know something? Xuedan looks exactly like the Japanese singer Yukikawa Iju. So cool—he’s my idol. Maybe he’s even more talented than Yukikawa Iju.”
“You have a lot of idols, don’t you?” Wu Aizhen said.
“Mhm! Yukikawa Iju only debuted a few years ago. He’s wildly popular, has tons of fans—”
“Oh, Teacher, do you know him?”
“No.”
“The song that made him famous is called ‘Cherry Blossom Love.’ The lyrics and the melody are both so beautiful.”
As she spoke, Keiko began to hum the tune in Japanese. Wu Aizhen couldn’t understand the lyrics, but the melody—lilting and possessed of a certain unadorned simplicity—made her feel as if she could see drifts of cherry blossoms swirling through the sky, returning to the earth without a backward glance.
“Keiko, that was lovely,” Wu Aizhen praised her.
“It’s my favorite song. It always stirs up a kind of melancholy and tenderness deep inside me that I can’t put into words. I feel like there’s something in the deepest part of my memory trying to surface. But I know those things must be beautiful, because they fill my heart with a soft, gentle light.”
“You’ll come to know what they are.” Wu Aizhen’s eyes grew slightly moist.
“Teacher, I really like Xuedan.” Keiko made no attempt to hide what was in her heart, and as she said it, there was not the slightest trace of a young girl’s shyness.
“So what? Xuedan is adorable!”
“Teacher, I want him to be my boyfriend.” Wu Aizhen was stunned by these words. Surely not this fast—they had only met once.
“Well, does Xuedan like you? You don’t even know. And does he have a girlfriend or not?” Wu Aizhen said.
“I’ll find out. If he’s not interested, or if he already has a girlfriend, I can just accept him as my big brother.” It was clear Keiko had fallen for Xuedan at first sight and was absolutely determined to form some kind of bond with him.
“Keiko, you have to be careful in matters of the heart. Think twice before you act. After all, you and Xuedan live so far apart. Your habits from childhood, your outlook on life, your values—they’re all different. Thinking this way is too naïve and impulsive.” Wu Aizhen spoke in the tone of someone who had been through it all.
“How can there be so many obstacles? If two people love each other, any problem can be solved. Actually, I’ve always wanted a Chinese boyfriend.”
“Why?”
“Because in some mysterious way, I feel that my love is in China.”
Wu Aizhen had no reply. She suddenly felt that she had grown old—that she could no longer keep pace with the footsteps of “love” in this era.
What would Yamaguchi Mingchuan think if he found out? Wu Aizhen could not fathom. For the first time, she felt that her judgment of people and her powers of insight had grown terribly dull.
The next afternoon, Xuedan arrived at the hospital early. Keiko made up an excuse and had him accompany her out.
Wu Aizhen leaned back against the hospital bed, watching with a smile as Keiko’s cheerful silhouette disappeared through the door. In her heart she silently wished: Keiko, may you find true love, may you be happy in this life!
Keiko was gone; the hospital room fell perfectly still. Sunlight filtered through the leaves outside the window and scattered in fragments of shadow across the clean marble floor. Everything was white; the carnations on the windowsill became the only living thing in all that whiteness. Amid this stillness and monotony, Wu Aizhen suddenly felt oppressed. A desolate loneliness rose up in her heart. Since she had begun cultivating and realizing the Dharma, she had believed loneliness and solitude were things she was no longer susceptible to. When she was alone, the joy of Chan samadhi had always been with her. But the torment of this illness, the weakness of her body, and the particular atmosphere of the hospital had brought her back to all the sensations she had known before embarking on the path of cultivation. Now she thought of her mother. No one knew she had come to Tibet, and she had not notified her family or any friends about her illness.
She dialed her mother’s number. When her mother heard her voice, she choked up with surprise and joy. It took a long moment before she could ask where Wu Aizhen was. Wu Aizhen’s face was already wet with tears. She said she was in Tibet, that her phone had been off all this time because of the geography, there was no signal. She struggled to make her voice sound casual and cheerful, covering her sobs with repeated fits of coughing. Her mother asked urgently, “What’s wrong? You’re coughing so hard.” “It’s nothing, nothing. I was just drinking water, and hearing your voice made me choke.” “How can you be so careless…” Her mother sounded as if she wished she could reach through the phone line to pat her on the back. “Your lungs have always been weak. The Qinghai-Tibet plateau is starved of oxygen—you have to be careful! When are you planning to come home?” “Oh, it’ll be a while yet. I came with some friends.” Wu Aizhen figured saying this would help put her mother’s mind at ease. “Didn’t Qingfei go with you? He called a while back looking for you. I thought something had happened to you.” “No, I came with colleagues from work. He couldn’t get away.” She was spinning a lie. Her mother clearly misunderstood. “That boy Qingfei is pretty good, you know. Don’t be so picky you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” Wu Aizhen wanted to hang up. “What are you doing in Tibet, anyway? Off looking for some great master again?” “No. I’m trying to find myself.” “Find what?” Her mother hadn’t caught the words. “Take care of yourself! Call home if anything comes up.” “Don’t worry!” Wu Aizhen finally hung up amid her mother’s choked string of admonitions and reminders.
Wu Aizhen had been frail since childhood, and her mother had always worried about her health. When she began practicing the Dharma, she took up a vegetarian diet and at times she abstained from grains. With tears in her eyes, her mother had said to her, “Whether you realize Buddhahood or become a Bodhisattva, I’ll support you all the same. But I want you to become a healthy person first.”
Thinking of this, Wu Aizhen’s tears flowed again. It was as if all the grievances, all her grief and tangled emotions of the many days from City A to Tibet were flooding out at once. She wept softly, calling out for her mother. That was the one place she had always been able to pour out her hurts since she was a child. A place where there was no aversion, no weariness. A love she had never once feared losing …
When Yamaguchi Mingchuan walked in, she had not managed to gather herself. She was still sunk in her sorrow, tears streaming down her face, crying her heart out.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan stood a few steps from her bed, watching in silence, and then handed her a towel to wipe her face.
“Is something troubling you?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan asked once she had finally quieted down.
She shook her head.
“Where has Keiko gone?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan tried to shift the topic to ease her mood.
“She went out with Xuedan.” Wu Aizhen saw no reason to hide it. She wanted Mingchuan to be mentally prepared.
“Oh. Are you feeling better?” Yamaguchi Mingchuan clearly had no other thought on his mind; his attention was still on her.
“You’ll have to excuse me—you’ve seen the fragile side of me. I’m all right.”
“I’m leaving for Macau and Hong Kong tomorrow. Something has come up at the branch offices there. Keiko can stay and keep you company. I came to say goodbye.”
At the mention of Macau, Wu Aizhen felt her heart stir. Keiko had already entrusted her with persuading her father about meeting her mother.
“I’m all right. I’ve caused you and Keiko so much trouble lately, I don’t know how I can ever repay you. There will be time enough, and I will remember the affection and loyalty you have shown me.”
“Don’t mention it. Keiko is very fond of you. When she’s with you, I can see how happy she is. In this life, if one can have a true friend, what more is there to ask?” As he said this, Yamaguchi Mingchuan took a deep breath and let it out, as if struggling to hold something back, to keep something in check. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he fought to keep them from falling.
“What’s happened?” Wu Aizhen asked, startled.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan could not hold back the tears, and they finally slid down his face without a sound. But he quickly stood, took a tissue, and wiped them away.
A man does not easily shed tears, only when his heart is deeply wounded does he weep. Watching a man as cold as Yamaguchi Mingchuan weep, Wu Aizhen was stunned. She did not know what to say.
There was a kshana of silence. Wu Aizhen heard the sound of her own breathing.
“My best friend—the friend I grew up with—is dead. He was murdered, and he died terribly.”
Wu Aizhen’s eyes widened. “Did they catch the killer? Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“It was because of some business disputes. He offended certain people. The matter was long past, but those people still wouldn’t let him go.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan fell silent and clenched his jaw.
Wu Aizhen wanted to comfort him, but for a moment she couldn’t find the right words.
“Miss Wu, I’ve heard you say that in Buddhism, when someone dies, dharma rites can be performed to deliver the departed soul.”
“Yes, in Han Chinese monasteries, such dharma rites are often held.”
“Do they work?”
“I don’t know, but I think if pure monks perform the rite, even if their own ability cannot deliver the deceased, the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas will bless the deceased through the monks’ body, speech, and mind. That’s why at every rite so many people are willing to submit the names of their departed loved ones. In any case, it’s also a comfort to the living.”
“You only need to know the name of the deceased?”
“Yes.”
“Then could you help me with this when you have the chance? Whatever else is needed, you can tell me. His name was Yamaguchi Keisuke.”
“I’ll certainly do it for you.” Wu Aizhen entered the name into her phone with care.
“Are you hastening back for a funeral?”
“No, the mourning period has passed. I’m settling his affairs.”
“Has the killer been caught?”
“Not yet. But I believe we’ll find him soon.” Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s eyes were terrifyingly cold, filled with fury, despair, and anguish.
“I’ll sacrifice his head to Keisuke.” The words burst from Yamaguchi Mingchuan.
A sudden chill ran through Wu Aizhen’s body and mind, raising goosebumps on her skin.
“You must restrain yourself. Buddhism teaches that life and death are governed by cause and effect. Hatred cannot solve anything.”
“What cause and effect? He only broke a rule of the game once. We already made substantial compensation, and still they wouldn’t let him go. Aren’t rules made by people? Why couldn’t they give him one chance, forgive him just once?”
“Mr. Mingchuan, this doesn’t seem like the way you ordinarily do things. Have you ever forgiven anyone?” Wu Aizhen asked.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan was momentarily taken aback. He wasn’t sure what Wu Aizhen was referring to, but he realized that his anger had spun out of control and he had said far too much. Even so, he no longer kept his guard up around Wu Aizhen. The anguish and suppressed pain of losing a friend were simply too much to bear; he needed someone to confide in or vent to.
“Miss Wu, you’re a clever woman. I don’t want to hide anything from you. You once asked what kind of work I do, and I told you then that I ran an import-export trading company in Japan. You smiled and said I seemed more like the head of an underworld organization, and that the first time you met me, you called me ‘Demon King’ in your mind. Those words startled me. Perhaps a life spent so long in the underworld has left my body and mind marked by certain habitual tendencies—and you saw right through me. Have you heard of Japan’s Cherry Blossom Society? I am the head of that organization. Keisuke was my deputy for many years. On this trip to Hong Kong, he was handling some of the organization’s affairs when someone within the organization betrayed him and he was killed by an enemy.” After Yamaguchi Mingchuan finished speaking, he looked at Wu Aizhen. She listened steadily, as though none of this was news to her; to her, it was merely a story from Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s life.
“I hold you in great respect, Miss Wu. That’s why, before leaving, I thought long and hard about whether to tell you the truth. But I’ve told you now, and your attitude is what I expected. I only hope that in your eyes I am not worse or more vile than this.”
“Are you going back this time to personally investigate the killer? Why not report it to the police?”
“Don’t be so naive. What’s the motive for the killing, and where is the evidence? If these things could be brought into the open, we wouldn’t be called the underworld.”
“I hope you won’t kill anyone.”
“Then how should it be resolved, Miss Wu? That is a woman’s way of thinking. The best compassion for a savage beast is a hunting rifle.”
Taking in the ferocity of his tone and the cold cruelty of his smile, Wu Aizhen realized she was facing anything but a merciful hunter.
“You just said your friend was the one who first broke the rules of the underworld game. Now that things have come to this, even if you kill the murderer, when will the cycle of vengeance ever end? Wouldn’t it be better to do what’s needed to comfort the departed soul, compensate the family, and give the killer a chance to atone?”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan laughed. “You don’t understand, Miss Wu. Without my order, anyone disposing of my subordinate for any reason is an insult to me. And the other side broke faith. They promised they would not pursue the matter, then still struck in the shadows—that violates the code of the underworld. Do you understand?” It was plain that Yamaguchi Mingchuan had explained this to Wu Aizhen with enormous patience.
Wu Aizhen no longer wanted to say anything, but there was one matter she had to get off her chest. She thought of Keiko. Yamaguchi Mingchuan was about to leave, and she didn’t know if she would ever see him again. If she didn’t speak now, there would be no time.
“Your friend died, and you’re grieving. You complain that his opponents didn’t give him a chance to change. You wanted your friend to be forgiven. I understand your feelings very well. But can you forgive Keiko’s mother? Can you let mother and daughter be reunited, and grant Keiko her wish?”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan froze at these words. He had not expected Wu Aizhen to bring this up now. He did not know how to respond. He suddenly recalled how Keisuke had once warned him not to kill Yamashima Mako. He shook his head, trying to forget these painful memories.
“Why is Keiko so attached to meeting her mother? That woman doesn’t love Keiko.”
“How could a mother not love her child? A parent’s love is the most beautiful and selfless love in the world.”
“That’s because you’ve only seen the good side of this world. You haven’t seen the other side.”
“What is the other side of parental love?”
“Does every parent in the world bring their children into this world out of love?”
“Perhaps not. But parents bestow the kindness of raising their children, and that is a kindness everyone must repay.”
“Repay? What sort of repayment—your theory of cause and effect? My mother got pregnant with me to possess my father completely, and when she failed she tried to get rid of me. Father paid her to carry me to term. I was raised by a cold old nun; I don’t know what motherly love is. When I was put through brutal physical and psychological training, no one cared about my feelings, no one asked whether I was willing. In darkness and loneliness I longed for her to rescue me, but all that came was fear and despair. How do you expect me to repay a mother like that?”
Yamaguchi Mingchuan spoke all this without warmth, his pace measured and calm. He was not agitated; there was no hatred in his eyes, only a misunderstood innocence and a coldness toward human feeling.
Wu Aizhen stayed silent. She suddenly felt she was seeing this man in a new light, and she wanted to understand him.
“After the divorce, Keiko’s mother immediately reunited with her old lover. She has never come back to see Keiko. Is a woman like that worthy of my respect?”
“Perhaps she was afraid of you and didn’t dare come back to see Keiko.”
“If she loved Keiko,” Mingchuan paused and forced the next words out with difficulty, “if she loved me, would she be afraid?!”
If one loves, can there still be fear? Wu Aizhen pondered this; she did not know.
“But if you loved her, would you make her afraid?” Wu Aizhen said.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan, too, fell silent.
Yamaguchi Mingchuan left. On the question of Keiko meeting her mother, he gave no further answer.
Xuedan came to the hospital several more times. It was plain that Keiko’s wishes could not be realized, and a certain distance showed through in his affection for her. Keiko told Wu Aizhen that Xuedan already had a girlfriend he had grown up with; she was now working in Lhasa.
Keiko asked Xuedan for a photograph. That evening, while keeping Wu Aizhen company during her IV drip, she held it in her hands, studying it and caressing Xuedan’s face gently with her fingers. It made Wu Aizhen’s heart ache with pity and tenderness for Keiko—such a pure-hearted girl.
Keiko had shown Wu Aizhen the photograph as soon as she got it: against a backdrop of snowy mountains and white clouds, Xuedan was reclining casually on the grassland, leaning on one elbow, with a Tibetan mastiff radiating a tiger’s fierce majesty half-crouching beside him.
Keiko said Xuedan was certainly as loyal in love as a Tibetan mastiff. Wu Aizhen teased her: “Maybe. But there are plenty of good boys in China. You really don’t have to pine away over a one-sided crush.”
“Not a chance! I just like him. He’s my big brother now, that’s all.”
After Yamaguchi Mingchuan left, Wu Aizhen’s heart suddenly felt a little bereft and remained heavy. She shared some of her worries with Keiko. Keiko had already learned about Keisuke’s death from Mingchuan and grieved for a while. She also told Wu Aizhen some fond stories about the friendship between Keisuke and her father, adding that her father must be suffering terribly. But she was not worried about her father: she said he was used to the killing and the fighting, and he was very smart, not the sort to act rashly—she told Wu Aizhen not to worry.
Wu Aizhen was startled by Keiko’s unruffled ease. Such a pure, lovely girl, and already unmoved by murder in the underworld. “Teacher, you don’t look down on me and my father because of this, do you?” Keiko asked. “No,” Wu Aizhen replied. “Life has two sides, yin and yang. From the moment your father was born he had no choice but to follow the rules of life’s shadow side. But yin also contains yang. The way your father has cherished his friendship with Keisuke and his loyalty to his brothers—that deserves my respect. But punishing evil and promoting good is the basic quality of a human being. And the law protects the side of justice and goodness; those who do evil will eventually be punished by the law of the land. Heaven’s net is cast wide and lets nothing slip through. Even when someone slips through a crack in the law, there is still karmic retribution: good deeds bring good fruit, evil deeds bring evil fruit.”
“Teacher, I believe what you say. And some things now are truly dark, but the people who do those dark things lead wealthy, happy lives. If Buddhism’s law of cause and effect delivered immediate retribution, it might still warn people, but…” Keiko began to speak, then stopped. “What exactly is Buddhist karmic retribution based on?”
“In the human path, human nature longs for goodness. If a person harms another, injures another’s interests, the retribution may not come from the victim, but it will come from some other aspect of that person’s life. So in fact retribution comes very quickly; it is only that the retribution is not a one-to-one match, and people receive it without even realizing it. In the Dharma Realm, retribution is about the traces things leave in the mind. Whether good or evil, if a trace is left in the mind, retribution must be faced. Sometimes a person who does evil may leave no trace in his own mind, but if the one he harmed dwells on it without cease, then when the causes and conditions converge, retribution will still come. The Buddhist law of karmic cause and effect involves dozens of dimensions, and it also involves the transformation of merit and blessings across many lifetimes. Moreover, human existence is connected to and interdependent with all things; there is also the question of collective karma influencing individual karma. For example, in war or plague, many people are killed or infected; some are simply bearing the disasters brought by collective karma. So the Buddhist law of cause and effect is quite complex; it cannot be explained clearly in a few words, nor can it be judged clearly by human eyes.”
“But in any case, in the human path, the first thing is to be a good person. Take the Confucian virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness as the basic standard for a human being. If a person loses these qualities, he really cannot count as a proper ‘human being.’ To be precise, in a single kshana his mind has already fallen into one of the other paths. If an individual’s blessings are exhausted, or if the collective blessings of humanity are exhausted—do you know? Humanity’s collective merit and virtue will be used up quickly as the human heart degenerates. And then, according to the Buddhist law of cause and effect, disaster and destruction for humankind will not be far off.”
Keiko smiled and said, “Human beings will not be destroyed. Science says humans will evolve. They’ll become one big head with tiny limbs—or, after science reaches an advanced stage, when Earth’s resources are exhausted, humans will emigrate to other planets in outer space. Do you think it will happen that way?”
“Maybe. I hope human intelligence and wisdom will reach that point before catastrophe strikes. But would those still be called human? By then, perhaps some ancient text will record: ‘In remote antiquity, there was an animal with long limbs and a small head, called “human.”‘ Then a fossil photo of a human would be attached—and if they got it wrong, they’d paste up a photo of a monkey instead. And the scientists would wear themselves out searching for traces of present-day humans, thoroughly enjoying themselves.”
Keiko said, “Teacher, you’re so funny.” Wu Aizhen laughed.
“Teacher, some of ancient China’s traditional culture really contains the words of sages. If I have the chance, I’d like to study some of it as well. Could you help me buy some books on the subject first?”
“I have an English edition of the Four Books and Five Classics at home. I’ll bring it to you later.”
“Thank you, Teacher. I also want to study the Buddhadharma,” Keiko said.
“You’re too greedy.”
“Greed for learning is a wholesome cause, isn’t it? It will bear good fruit.”
“Not necessarily. If you merely mouth the words and use them to chase profit, you won’t get good fruit either. You have to take it into your heart and use it in your actions—that’s when you’ve made it your own.”
“Teacher, I think everything you say is full of philosophical insight.”
Keiko was flattering her. Wu Aizhen found it quite gratifying; she felt a quiet, smug satisfaction.
“In order to save humankind, I am going to study hard and become a person of noble character.” Keiko raised her arm, playfully proclaiming her vow.
“A few days ago you said you could give up everything for love, that you wouldn’t fear even climbing a mountain of knives or plunging into a sea of fire. And today you’re already swearing to save humankind?”
“Teacher, there’s no conflict.”
“Then what if love or family ties come into conflict with morality? Which would you choose?”
Keiko blinked, smiled mysteriously, and said nothing. Wu Aizhen was actually asking herself the same question. Could she really sacrifice family attachments for the greater good? Could she truly regard all sentient beings as equal? That was the Bodhisattva path, not the human path—human beings are bound to have selfish desires. In ancient China, if a father broke the law, his children had the right to shelter him; actively reporting him was regarded as an unfilial act. This probably stemmed from human nature, taking ordinary human feelings into account. But law is impartial, upholding the rights and interests of victims—it cannot be concerned with personal feeling. Was a good law essentially the Bodhisattva path practiced on the human plane?! At that moment, she thought of the wrathful images of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas in Tibetan monasteries: wearing skulls on their heads, holding human hearts in their hands, dripping with blood, ferocious in countenance. They subdue demons—subduing external demons and also subduing the demons of the mind. But the wisdom and power of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, whether employing benevolent or fierce methods on the human plane, could deliver human souls, purifying and elevating them—something the law could never achieve. Still, Wu Aizhen had often heard that eminent monks and spiritual teachers around the world went to hospitals, prisons, and similar places to promote and spread the principles that purify and uplift the mind. Truly, merit and virtue beyond measure! Wu Aizhen reflected silently. Looking back at herself—grieving over her own trifling emotions and petty desires, blaming heaven and others, all the while bringing forth great Bodhicitta before her Master, seeking Buddhahood above and transforming sentient beings below—she really was too small to be worth mentioning.
“Teacher, what are you thinking about?” Keiko asked.
“Oh, just random thoughts. I want to unify my body, speech, and mind.”
“Then simply match your deeds to your words and it’s done.”
“Some actions, some matters—you can say them but not do them.”
“What’s hard about that? Since you know you can’t do them, then just don’t say them and don’t think them.”
“How clever you are. But people always think a great deal, say a great deal, yet do very little. Sometimes emotion gets the better of you. Ah, you are not your own master.” Hearing the word “emotion,” Keiko assumed Wu Aizhen was again speaking of her and Xuedan, and she couldn’t help blushing.
The hospital finally notified Wu Aizhen that she could be discharged. She had stayed in the hospital for twenty-three days. Keiko took care of the discharge procedures for Wu Aizhen; some of the deposit Yamaguchi Mingchuan had placed at the hospital remained, and Keiko insisted that Wu Aizhen keep it. Wu Aizhen did not decline. She vaguely sensed that her karmic connection with Keiko and Yamaguchi Mingchuan was not yet ended, and that she would someday have to repay this debt of feeling.
Keiko had been very happy these past few days, because her father had agreed to let her go to Macau to meet her mother, and he invited Wu Aizhen to go along. When Keiko conveyed her father’s invitation, Wu Aizhen’s heart stirred—but she refused. This stretch of time in the hospital had helped her see many things clearly. The knots in her own emotional life had fully opened. She wanted to go back and see Ren Qingfei. She wanted to probe and understand several matters, and also to give Ren Qingfei some honest advice, then sincerely wish him happiness. She wanted to pull herself together again—for her mother, for everyone who loved her, for her faith. She was going to return to City A. She no longer wanted to flee from anything. She wanted to begin a new journey in her life.
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