Chapter 177: The Buddha Views a Bowl of Water
Bottle Gourd Continent had always liked to use Guanhu Academy as the dividing line between north and south.
The north was mostly barbaric, while the south was entirely civilized.
Southerners looking down on northerners was a matter of course. Even the great literati of the Northern Sui Dynasty had to consider themselves inferior when facing the scholars and refined gentlemen of the Southern Jian Kingdom. Hence, the noble families of the south considered marrying into the north a disgrace.
As the year drew to a close, in a bustling market in the south, a barefoot middle-aged monk walked with an alms bowl, his face square and resolute, moving slowly.
Street performers exhausted their skills, drawing waves of applause. The monk spotted a small monkey tied to a wooden post. It was scrawny, making its eyes appear unusually large.
The monk crouched down, pulled out half a hard, dry flatbread, broke off a piece, placed it in his palm, and extended it toward the emaciated monkey.
But the little creature was startled by the monk's kindness. It panicked and scrambled backward, the iron chain snapping taut instantly. With a rebound, the monkey, covered in whip scars, tumbled to the ground, curling up and whimpering softly.
The monk gently placed the broken pieces of flatbread near the wooden post, then broke half of the remaining flatbread into smaller bits, scattering them on the ground. He set down his iron bowl, stepped back, and finally sat cross-legged about three or four paces from the post. Closing his eyes, he began to silently recite scriptures and monastic precepts, his lips moving faintly.
Cultivating while walking, cultivating while sitting, traveling thousands of miles, always ascetic.
The starving monkey, truly desperate with hunger, watched the monk timidly for a long moment after he sat down. Finally, it summoned the courage to grab a piece of flatbread, scurried back to its spot, and devoured it. Seeing that the monk remained unmoved, it grew bolder, sneaking another piece. This repeated, and by chance, it discovered that there was some clear water in the iron bowl. It took a sip. In the depth of winter, the water in the bowl was surprisingly warm, which brought the monkey some comfort. It grew less afraid of the monk, staring at the barefoot, bald-headed figure with wide eyes full of bewilderment.
After finishing his recitation, the monk opened his eyes and stood up. The monkey immediately hid again. The monk simply bent down to retrieve his bowl and left.
The monkey gripped the wooden post, watching the monk's back as it quickly vanished into the crowded sea of people.
For the first time, it let out a soft burp, scratched its gaunt, furless cheek, and blinked its large eyes.
The barefoot monk walked with his head down through the endless crowd. Even when bumped by passersby, he never looked up. Instead, he would raise his right hand in a gesture of respect before his chest, nod slightly, and continue on.
In the marketplace, there was a demented old man, his hair and eyebrows matted, filthy and ragged, clothed in tatters. Whenever he encountered a child, regardless of whether the child's family was rich or poor, he would approach and ask the same question. Most common folk were used to this, either speeding up to drag their children away or, in some cases, cursing at him. Some hot-tempered young men would even shove him. From start to finish, the old madman merely repeated that strange question.
"Has your child been named yet?"
A group of young idlers who knew the old man's background cornered him. One of them, with a sly grin, said, "I have a kid at home who hasn't been named. What are you going to do about it?"
The old man's face immediately lit up with joy. He danced around excitedly, saying, "I'll name him! I'll name him! This time I'll definitely pick a good name..."
"Name your grandpa!" The young man kicked the old man in the stomach, sending him sprawling backward. The old man rolled on the ground, clutching his belly.
The alms-bowl monk crouched down and helped the old man to his feet. The group of idlers laughed and swaggered away.
After being helped up, the old man grabbed the monk's arm tightly and again asked the same utterly disrespectful question, "Has your child been named yet?"
The middle-aged monk looked at the senile old man, shook his head, helped brush the dirt off his clothes, and continued on his way.
The old man kept seeking out trouble in the market, enduring countless scornful looks and curses.
As the sun set in the west, the monk begged for food with his bowl. After seven households, he stopped his alms round. The food in his iron bowl was meager, hardly enough for a single meal.
The monk entered the city from the north and exited from the south. The streets were packed with people. The monk walked with his head bowed, and whenever he encountered a small insect, he would pick it up and place it by the roadside where no one would step on it.
Finally, he spotted a long-abandoned ancient temple. The monk performed a one-handed salute at the gate and slowly walked inside.
Under the eaves of the main hall, on the covered walkway, he ate the food from his bowl, then sat cross-legged to continue his cultivation.
In the twilight, the old madman stumbled back, not even glancing at the monk. He headed straight for the main hall, collapsed onto a pile of straw, rolled up a tattered, thin blanket, covered his hands and feet as best he could, and fell into a deep sleep.
The night passed without incident.
The wretched old man who loved giving people nonsense names didn't wake up until noon. After waking, he left the broken temple and headed back into the city's crowds, completely ignoring the middle-aged monk. At first, some had speculated whether the madman might be a strange recluse with extraordinary abilities, but they later realized he was nothing but a useless old fool—he never fought back when hit, never cursed when scolded, and if beaten hard enough, he would cry out in pain and bleed. In the end, only a few idle ruffians found amusement in tormenting him.
The old man had lived in this abandoned temple for many years.
Over the next half year, day after day, the monk stayed there. Occasionally, he would go into the city with the old man to beg for alms, and sometimes they would leave the city together and return to their dwelling. The two never exchanged words, and even rarely made eye contact. Every time the old madman saw the monk, he looked utterly confused, unable to remember anything.
One night, rain poured in torrents, thunder roared and lightning flashed.
Amid the fierce wind and driving rain, even a shout from right next to someone could barely be heard.
The old man, curled up on his straw mat, shuddered with every clap of thunder. In his deep sleep, perhaps recalling some sorrowful memory or trapped in a nightmare, he clenched his fists, his body tense, and muttered repeatedly: "It's Grandpa's fault for naming you badly, it's Grandpa who ruined you, it's Grandpa who ruined you..."
His withered, aged face had long since run dry of tears, but his anguish seemed all the more heart-wrenching.
As the rapid thunder became intermittent, though the rain still fell heavily and the noise was frightening, the old man's muttering faded away.
But just as the old man was about to fall into a deep sleep, the monk bent his finger and lightly tapped.
Dong!
It sounded like a wooden fish resounding through the ancient temple.
Like a spring thunderclap echoing under the eaves.
The old man jolted awake, sitting up abruptly. He looked around, first in confusion, then in resignation, and finally in grief. He stood up and walked out of the main hall. The short, ragged old man moved with a fierce presence, like a tiger descending a mountain or a dragon crossing a river. But despite his intimidating aura, his body was pitifully weak.
A dead tiger still maintains its imposing stance.
The old man stepped outside the temple, looked up at the sky, and remained silent for a long time. In the end, only a deep melancholy remained.
The monk said softly, "All sentient beings are afflicted with suffering."
Without even glancing at the monk, the old man sneered, "Suffering my ass! I'm happy with it! How is being a heartless, desireless immortal any kind of freedom? Damn 'long life and eternal vision'—every one of them on high only remembers being immortals and forgets being human... Haha! When commoners forget their roots, they get struck by lightning; when immortals forget their roots, they become true immortals. Ridiculous, truly ridiculous..."
The middle-aged monk said again, "All beings suffer."
The old man fell silent. He sat cross-legged, fists clenched and resting on his knees, and said in self-mockery, "As if a lifetime has passed."
At dawn, the old man, who had fallen asleep at some point, jolted awake. His eyes were again murky, and he proceeded to muddle through another day.
Thus passed more than a month. On a moonlit night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, the old man finally regained clarity. But this time, his spirit was far weaker than before—he was decrepit and aged.
He sat with the monk on the covered walkway under the eaves, gazing at the bright moon. The old man talked to himself, "My grandson is very intelligent, the most brilliant scholar seed under heaven. But unfortunately, he bears the surname Cui, which is already a misfortune. To have a grandfather like me is an even greater misfortune. It shouldn't be like this, it shouldn't be like this..."
The middle-aged monk remained silent.
Someone from the Cui clan of Bottle Gourd Continent had once said: "When the temple has no monk, the wind sweeps the floor; when there is incense but no fire, the moon lights the lamp."
Winter arrived, heavy snow fell. The old man slept inside the temple, teeth chattering, his face ashen, as if he might not survive the cold. The monk entered with his alms bowl and handed the old man a warm, dry flatbread. The old man took it blankly, then suddenly threw it to the ground. His eyes cleared slightly. He watched the monk pick up the flatbread and offer it again. The old man shook his head and said, "I only want to live to see my grandson once. Otherwise, I won't die in peace. This breath won't leave me, I can't let it go! I have to tell him I'm sorry—Grandpa let him down... I can't be crazy. I need to stay lucid. Monk, save me!"
The old man grabbed the monk's arm tightly, "Monk, if you can keep me clear-headed until I see my grandson, I'll be your ox or your horse, whatever it takes... I'll kowtow to you now, I'll become your disciple! Yes, yes, you're a monk with great powers, you must be able to free me from this sea of suffering..."
This time, when the old man regained clarity, his spirit was as withered as dead wood, showing signs of exhaustion. His consciousness was no longer clear.
The monk said calmly, "Why can't you let go of this obsession? Even if you see him, what can be done about it now?"
The old man's face was full of sorrow, "How can I let go? It's not just my own affair. I can't let it go, not in this lifetime."
The middle-aged monk thought for a moment, "Since you can't let it go, then first pick it up."
The old man asked dazedly, "How do I pick it up?"
The monk replied, "Go to Great Li."
The old man nodded, "Yes, yes, my grandson is in Great Li."
The monk shook his head, "Your grandson is in Great Sui. But your grandson's teacher is in Longquan County, Great Li."
The old man panicked. He shrank back, pressing against the wall, shaking his head violently, "I don't want to see the Sage of Literature..."
A moment later, the old man suddenly flew into a rage, "If you want to harm me, just beat me to death. If you want to harm my grandson, I'll smash your golden body to pieces! Even if your Buddha himself comes, I'll still throw a punch!"
With these words, the old man struggled to his feet. His aura was fierce and imposing, comparable to the pure martial artists who had fought in the Lizhu Cave Heaven.
But it was only a bit of bluster now.
The monk's face was calm. He lowered his head and gazed at the iron bowl in his hand. The clear water inside rippled slightly. "The Buddha views a bowl of water, and sees eighty-four thousand creatures."
The old man frowned, "Bald donkey, stop speaking in riddles with me!"
The monk turned his head and gently lifted the iron bowl, "This is the most interesting aspect of your grandson—he sees the 'small.' I think I can discuss this with his teacher."
The old man's eyes were resolute, "Monk, your scheme is too grand. I will never agree to it."
The monk sighed, "A rootless weed."
With that, the monk rose and left.
The old man quickly sat cross-legged, began to breathe and circulate his energy. His withered skin began to glow faintly with golden light.
Then, using his finger, he carved the words "Great Li, Longquan County" into his palm, the flesh mangled and bloody. He kept telling himself, "Go to this place, must go to this place. Only look, don't speak; only ask, don't act." His mind churned, imprinting these words upon his heart.
The old man returned to the temple and collapsed into sleep.
Outside, the snow grew heavier, but as the chill air approached the temple gate, it melted away on its own.