Pathway to Japanese Literature

I On December 12th, Mr. Kikujirō, a poor farmer, accompanied the monk of Unganji Temple as he made his rounds collecting the first rice offerings. The first rice offerings refer to the new rice harvested this autumn, and the village farmers would offer small portions of it to the temple, entrusting their pleas for the afterlife to Buddha.

When the monk stood at the doorways of the village houses and recited a short sutra, the farmers, already well aware of the routine, would bring out new rice in masu measures from the back rooms. Receiving that rice, putting it into sacks, and carrying them in a wicker basket was the duty of Mr. Kikujirō who accompanied him.

Now, since that autumn’s rice harvest was abundant, the farmers did not hold back and offered large quantities of their first rice offerings. And soon the two sacks would become full, and each time Mr. Kikujirō had to take the rice to empty it into the temple’s storehouse. By nightfall Mr. Kikujirō had made five trips. And then, just as another sack was about to become full again, the day ended and they had just finished with all the village houses.

“It’s already gotten dark, but what should we do about Utanidani?”

said the monk, tilting his head.

Utanidani was a hamlet in the depths of a valley about fifteen *chō* away, where only five farmers’ houses stood. However, the farmers of Utanidani had brewed exceptionally delicious sake.

“We’ve gathered quite a bit of rice already, but what should we do about Utanidani?” The monk said again. “Weell…” Mr. Kikujirō, who was rather fond of sake, answered in a drawn-out manner. “If we go to Utanidani, we’ll end up returning at night—but should we go or not?” And the monk, who was also fond of sake, said for the third time while twisting his prayer beads. “Weeeell…”

Mr. Kikujirō answered in an even more drawn-out manner than before.

“Well, so be it—let’s go then.” “Kikujirō, if you don’t want to, go back alone.”

Having said that，the monk started walking toward the valley. “Why would I go back? If I'm accompanying you，Monk，I wouldn't refuse even if it were into hell's cauldron.”

Mr. Kikujirō said as he hurriedly followed after the monk. When they arrived at Utanidani, indeed, at one of the farmer’s houses there, they drew delicious sake from a barrel into a one-shō masu and served it to them.

The monk, “To let a sake lover drink—there’s no need for such cajoling!” “This is none other than the compassion that Buddha teaches.” and spouting sermon-like remarks, “Was this sake brewed with water from the Western Spring or the Eastern Spring?” “What? With water from the Western Spring?” “There, there—it *should* be delicious!” “That water from the Western Spring is delicious even on its own, isn’t it?” he praised such things and drank plenty.

Mr. Kikujirō, for his part, sat down on the threshold and wrung a hand towel between both hands,

“No more for me, I’ve had plenty—I’m just your attendant.” remarking, “But since you don’t have any luggage to carry back, Monk—you can drink all you like! But me—I’ve got this load here. If I take too much now, I won’t be able to haul it later.”

making such remarks—he still drank quite a lot.

When they left that house—though one more remained—the Monk belched and declared, "Let’s head back," starting up the narrow path.

It was already night. The moon that had been in the sky since daytime began to shine, and the sasanqua flowers blooming at the corner of the narrow path looked coldly white. The path wound and twisted through the fields as it ascended toward the village. When they had climbed four or five *chō*, the two of them heard a voice calling from behind. “Wait up, please—Mister.”

Someone was calling from the direction of the valley floor.

“What could it be? Did we forget something?” And the monk tried stroking and pressing around his own body. “I’ll come right now—please wait a moment—Mister.”

And a voice that sounded like an old person said.

Before long, a figure resembling a person came into view in the moonlight. “He’s got a limp.”

Then, after another while, Mr. Kikujirō said—for the figure was approaching haltingly, one step at a time. “Ah—it’s so painful—so painful.” “I’m sorry to’ve kept you waitin’.” “Nothin’ to it—I came chasin’ after ya to have ya take this along.”

What the limping old man, who had climbed up breathlessly, held out before the two was a bowl filled with rice.

“Hmm, I see. “I thought it was something else.” The monk listlessly received the bowl and said: “Oh no, I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting. “But when I heard you’d already come to collect first offerings at Utanidani and left, I thought it’d be disrespectful to Buddha if I alone didn’t present mine. “I humbly ask your kind consideration.”

The limping old farmer, like someone who had fulfilled a weighty duty, went back down the slope with his face glowing. Since the two other sacks were already full, Mr. Kikujirō placed the bowl as it was in the corner of the wicker basket. Having drunk about three or four gō of sake, he didn’t consider himself such a clumsy hand as to spill that rice. However, even after walking just a little way, Mr. Kikujirō tripped over a stone. The bowl toppled over, and white rice scattered across the soil.

“Oh no!” Mr. Kikujirō frantically scooped up the rice with both hands. And he put it into the bowl.

Then the monk took that bowl in his hands, examined it, and scattered the rice onto the ground again. “This is no good—it’s got dirt mixed in.”

Mr. Kikujirō was vacantly staring at the rice scattered across the ground. “There—this should do.”

Then the Monk scattered that rice with his foot. Mr. Kikujirō widened his eyes. What in the world was the Monk doing? To think he would kick and scatter the rice with his foot! However, Mr. Kikujirō was also a bit too easily carried away. On top of that, the sake had gone to his head.

Mr. Kikujirō, too, abruptly stuck out one leg and ended up imitating the Monk.

And so, the bowlful of rice that the limping old man had brought up breathlessly was trampled underfoot by the two drunken men and vanished from sight. “Ah, that feels refreshing.”

And with that, the Monk staggered off. Mr. Kikujirō threw the empty bowl with all his strength over there. At first, the bowl flew straight and darkly, but the moment it seemed to glint, it changed direction and plunged diagonally into the bamboo thicket.

Mr. Kikujirō also felt as though he’d been cleansed by this and shouldered the basket once more.

II

Two days later, on a cloudy, cold day, Mr. Kikujirō went to help polish implements at Unganji Temple. At Unganji Temple, where the Memorial Service for Repaying Kindness would soon be held and large numbers of worshippers visited daily, they polished all sorts of implements placed before Buddha until they gleamed as part of the preparations. Mr. Kikujirō had lunch at Unganji Temple and returned home.

Kikujirō’s small house stood in a field surrounded by rose of Sharon trees before Unganji Temple’s gate. When Mr. Kikujirō reached the well area, his son Seizō stood by the ash shed, picking at lichen clinging to the wall. The boy wore neither clogs nor sandals. “Sei, what’re you doin’ there in this cold?” At Mr. Kikujirō’s words, Seizō began sobbing. “Grandma scolded you again, huh? C’mere, c’mere. Daddy’ll make it right.”

Mr. Kikujirō led the sobbing Seizō into the house.

Inside the house, Mr. Kikujirō’s elderly mother and his wife were arguing. The wife was saying that the grandmother scolded Seizō too harshly, and that hitting his back with fire tongs was cruel.

Moreover, the elderly mother, for her part, declared in a voice like clanging a cracked metal pot that the daughter-in-law was spoiling the child too much—children and cats grow more spoiled the more you pamper them, she said.

When Mr. Kikujirō asked what on earth had caused such a quarrel, it turned out that while Seizō had been eating his lunch, he had spilled two grains of rice—and the grandmother had seen it. “You’ll get divine punishment—pick those up and eat them,” [the grandmother] had said, but Seizō refused, saying they’d gotten dirty, and in the end, he had rubbed the two grains of rice into the woven gaps of the straw mat—that was how it happened. So the grandmother got angry, hit Seizō with fire tongs, and chased him outside—that’s how it went.

“Grandmother’s gone too far. She’s telling him to eat rice grains that fell into the dust between the straw mat’s gaps, you know,” the wife said imploringly to Mr. Kikujirō. “Even if it’s dusty or sandy, what’re you supposed to do if you don’t eat it? It’s blessed rice, ain’t it? If you throw it away, divine punishment’ll strike—you know that,” the elderly mother bellowed, her large mouth flapping open and closed. Mr. Kikujirō listened in silence, but in his heart, he was angry at his mother. He thought she was a nasty old hag—for an elder, she kept acting high and mighty, tormenting his wife at every turn. He realized that when people spoke of heartless old hags, they meant exactly the kind of woman his mother was.

It was then that Mr. Kikujirō finally spoke. “As if divine punishment would strike just for throwing away a few grains of rice!” The elderly mother, taken aback by her son speaking so calmly yet uttering such strange words, stared intently at his face. Then, “Are you saying divine punishment won’t strike even if you waste rice?”

she asked. Mr. Kikujirō remained composed, “Yeah, that’s how it is.” “As proof, I trampled white rice with my own feet alongside the monk of Unganji Temple just t’other day, but there’s been no divine punishment at all.” “Both me and the monk of Unganji Temple.”

he said.

When she heard this, the color suddenly drained from the elderly mother’s face.

“Th-that... that’s from the other day—the day of the first rice offering?”

Mother asked in a trembling voice. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Kikujirō answered as if it were a joke.

Mother gulped audibly, fell silent for a moment, and then—with a labored breath—

“Wh-which leg?” she asked as if forcing out the words.

“With this leg.” Mr. Kikujirō casually thrust his left leg before his mother’s knees. Mother stared at the leg with a bloodless face, as though gazing at a severed head. And then, “May divine punishment not strike,” she murmured like a prayer. “Divine punishment? As if that’d ever strike! Both me and the monk trampled white rice just like this. If divine punishment were real, this leg’d be hurting—but not a single twinge.”

“May divine punishment not strike.” Mother said, still praying. “As if it would strike. Not even a twinge…” Just as Mr. Kikujirō spoke those words, he felt a sudden twinge of pain in his left leg. But convinced it was just his imagination, “Not even a twinge…” he began—when pain dozens of times worse shot through his leg like lightning. This can’t be happening, he thought, gritting his teeth against it,

*Damn... Not even a twinge…*

When he started to say this, a pain as if a drill were being twisted into his leg shot through him, and he could no longer endure it, "Agh! Shii—t!"

With that, he clutched his leg.

“See there! This isn’t nonsense—divine punishment has struck!”

And the elderly mother, having realized her words had been correct, declared triumphantly.

However, she immediately realized this was no time for triumph. Her precious son was clutching his leg, groaning in agony.

At Mr. Kikujirō’s house, a great uproar turned everything upside down. To soothe the pain in Kikujirō’s left leg, they tried soaking hand towels in scalding water and binding them tight, kneading mustard powder with hot water to slather thickly on his leg, applying fava bean-sized moxa cones below his knee, roasting seed eggplants to split in two and press the still-hot halves against his soles—along with every other treatment a poor farming household could attempt. In the end, driven to desperation, they even tried sticking a scrap of straw smeared with spit to his forehead. This was a charm performed when numbness had set in.

They tried all manner of things, but none of them had any effect. Mr. Kikujirō could no longer walk. Clutching his throbbing leg, he lay sprawled in bed, groaning. Given this, he had no choice but to accept that the divine punishment for trampling the rice had indeed struck. At that, Mr. Kikujirō said: “So divine punishment’s finally struck after all.”

And when he considered how much sweat and toil we farmers shed to produce a single grain of rice, he concluded that it was only natural the leg which had trampled such precious grains should ache under divine punishment.

III Even when people face misfortune, having companions makes it somewhat easier to bear. Kikujirō too found that when he thought of the monk of Unganji Temple as his companion—since he wasn't the only one who had trampled the rice—even the pain in his leg became somewhat bearable. So Mr. Kikujirō waited inwardly, wondering whether before long the monk's legs too would begin to ache like his own.

Two days, three days went by.

In bed, Mr. Kikujirō,

“A little while ago, there was a sound like someone climbing Unganji Temple’s stone steps—wasn’t that a doctor?” he kept asking his wife. On windless noons when the veranda lay bathed in drowsy sunlight, he would crawl out there and keep watch on Unganji Temple’s gate with his own eyes. He waited in secret anticipation, wondering whether before long the caretaker or the young acolyte might come rushing out from there to summon a doctor.

Thus, when a sudden clamor arose one day within the temple gate—a raucous commotion—Mr. Kikujirō, thinking the monk’s leg must have begun to ache at last, forgot his own pain, stood up, and even rose on tiptoe to see. But upon realizing it was merely stray dogs from the neighborhood fighting in the precincts, Mr. Kikujirō sank back in disappointment.

The next morning, the long-awaited young acolyte appeared from the gate. However, the young acolyte came to hang a large lantern—about the size of a four-to barrel—on the temple gate’s eaves. On it was written “Memorial Service for Repaying Kindness.” Today, the Memorial Service for Repaying Kindness began.

Mr. Kikujirō knew that during the Memorial Service for Repaying Kindness, the monk would climb onto the dais in the worship hall and deliver a sermon. If he kept a close watch on the monk ascending and descending the dais, he would surely discern the true condition of the monk’s legs, Kikujirō thought. Thinking this, Mr. Kikujirō wanted to go and see the Memorial Service for Repaying Kindness.

The worshippers gathered one after another. Even these worshippers were all stooped old people. They all came leaning on canes, chins nearly dragging along the ground. Though the stone steps weren’t particularly high, they had to stop three or four times to rest while climbing. Therefore, even when Mr. Kikujirō clung to his cane and dragged his aching leg up the steps, there was nothing particularly conspicuous about it.

In the main hall, Mr. Kikujirō sat in the shadow of a thick pillar polished to a gleaming shine. For Mr. Kikujirō’s purpose was not to hear the monk’s sermon, but to secretly observe the condition of the monk’s legs. Those who attempt to stealthily observe others’ states are ones who wish to conceal their own presence. Before long, the monk appeared at the side entrance of the main hall wearing a beautiful persimmon-colored kesa stole. Then, with a crisp rustling of fine cloth brushing together, he proceeded before the principal Buddha statue in the innermost sanctum. He displayed no trace of a limp. After solemnly pressing his palms together and bowing to the principal Buddha statue, he emerged into a brighter area and effortlessly ascended a dais about three shaku high—roughly three feet—where he settled into his seat.

Mr. Kikujirō, who had been watching all this while holding his breath, slumped in disappointment and thought—Well, well, seems there’s nothing wrong with the monk’s legs after all. So it seems divine punishment has struck only me.

When the monk ascended the dais, low voices arose from among the old men and old women filling the hall—"Namu Amida Butsu," "Namu Amida Butsu"—like the sound of wind through a thicket. Mr. Kikujirō, too, found himself swept along and ended up chanting “Namu Amida Butsu.” In truth, when the monk sat upon the dais wearing his persimmon-colored kesa monk’s stole, he appeared splendid and venerable—like a messenger of Buddha or some such. That this splendid, venerable monk—drunk as he was—could have trampled the rice offerings was something he could hardly believe.

The monk first surveyed the entire hall, then emitted two terrifyingly loud coughs—rasping and cavernous. It was as if a tiger had roared twice. Among the old men and women, some—perhaps recalling Enma—chanted “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu,” hunched their already rounded backs even further. Then, the monk slowly parted his lips and, “Dear elders, how devoutly you’ve come to worship today, Oh.”

“Dear elders, how devoutly you’ve come to worship today, Oh,” he said. This was the beginning of the sermon.

The sermon continued at length. The monk raised his voice loudly and spoke of hell, paradise, and the Buddha. When reaching what seemed like crucial points, the monk slapped the dais forcefully with his hands, bulged his eyes like a crab’s, and spoke in a booming voice as if to swallow whole the old people sitting right below the dais. Then, whenever speaking of Buddha, he would draw out the word “arigatai” (“grateful”) as “arigataa—i,” stretching it like taffy to make it sound profoundly reverent—and each time, the old people chanted the nenbutsu prayer.

Mr. Kikujirō, hidden behind the pillar, stealthily watched the monk while steeling his resolve—he wouldn’t be taken in by the monk’s words. No matter how pious a face the monk might put on or how splendid the things he might say, those were mere lip service—Mr. Kikujirō told himself inwardly that he knew exactly what sort of man the monk truly was. However, when the monk, “When a daughter-in-law and an elder quarrel—now, dear elders, listen well—it’s not the daughter-in-law who’s at fault.” “It’s you elders who are at fault.” “No matter how much you recite prayers, elders who torment their daughters-in-law cannot enter paradise!”

When the monk preached this, Mr. Kikujirō truly thought that was right. And he thought—if it’s this kind of sermon, I wish Grandma could have heard it. That Grandma had gone to Maeshiyama today to tread wheat in place of Mr. Kikujirō, who had a bad leg. Then, the monk also spoke about how one must treat everything with care. And then he said: “In one candle, a single sheet of paper, a drop of hair pomade, a grain of rice or barley—though unseen by the eye, Buddha resides within them all, Oh.” “If you waste a single sheet of paper, it amounts to disrespecting Buddha, Oh.” “If you spill a single grain of rice, divine punishment will strike accordingly, Oh.”

Mr. Kikujirō thought it was exactly as the monk said. The leg that had trampled the rice—his own leg—was still aching. But even so, Mr. Kikujirō thought, the monk had been able to say such things so hypocritically. How could divine punishment not have struck him for this... While looking at the monk’s thick neck and face glistening with greasy sweat, Mr. Kikujirō thought that this man was fortunate—after doing such wicked things and telling such hypocritical lies before people, he remained untouched by divine punishment. Yet only he himself had been struck while this man faced no reproach—heaven was unfair; heaven’s ways were one-sided.

Since he no longer had any desire to listen further, Mr. Kikujirō returned home, leaning on his cane.

When Mr. Kikujirō thought how he had endured misfortune all alone without any comrades, he felt desolate. And he resented Heaven for striking none but him with divine punishment. At dinner that evening, Mr. Kikujirō could no longer endure it and ended up speaking out.

“There ain’t no such foolishness.” “The Monk and I did the same thing, yet only my leg’s gone bad while he’s still hale and hearty—ain’t that how it is?” “Heaven’s a bit of a fool—can’t see a damn thing, if you ask me.”

When she heard this, the elderly mother placed her hands—one holding chopsticks and the other gripping a rice bowl—on her knees,

“What kind of deluded notion are you holding?” “How can you resent Heaven when you’re the one who did wrong?” “Saying such things and cursing Heaven—it won’t come to a blessed thing, I tell you.” she said.

That night, after extinguishing the andon lamp, Mr. Kikujirō lay awake in the darkness for a long time with his eyes open.

Before Mr. Kikujirō’s eyes lay black soil. Scattered across it lay a faintly white handful. It was spilled rice. Precious rice. As he stared at this phantom of scattered grains, Mr. Kikujirō suddenly understood why divine punishment had struck him alone.

Mr. Kikujirō was a farmer. Because he was a farmer, he knew how much hardship went into harvesting rice. And he also knew how delicious rice harvested through such hardship could be. In other words, he understood the value of rice—its true worth. It was precisely because Mr. Kikujirō had trampled rice underfoot that divine punishment had struck. However, the monk was no farmer. Though he might piously preach about rice being sacred, having never grown it himself, he knew neither the toil of cultivation nor rice’s true savor. Thus, having acted without true understanding—without awareness—divine punishment likely spared the monk despite his trampling of rice...

Mr. Kikujirō, having come to understand this, no longer felt any resentment toward Heaven.—He even felt like thanking Heaven—he knew the value of rice. The monk was born a human yet did not know the true value of rice.

If that was the case, there was no need to grieve over the pain in his leg from divine punishment. Wasn't this proof that Mr. Kikujirō knew the value of rice? "I truly hadn't made amends." "I truly hadn't made amends..."

And Mr. Kikujirō apologized to the pale white rice phantoms. Then, dragging his lame leg up the slope where he had once chased after the old man, he apologized to the elderly farmer who had delivered that single bowl of rice. He apologized to Heaven and to earth. He apologized to his mother. He apologized to his father who had died fifteen years before. He apologized to everyone in his heart.

Then, the next morning, Mr. Kikujirō noticed the pain had left his left leg. Much like someone who had suffered a stroke, he found he could no longer put strength into that leg. This meant he now had to walk by dragging it along. For having his pain taken away and left at that, Mr. Kikujirō offered immeasurable thanks to Heaven. It was as if he had been reborn—his heart now transformed into something beautiful.

And from that day on, in place of his elderly mother, he set out to tread barley on Mae Mountain.

IV

After that, Mr. Kikujirō lived for forty years. During that time, various things changed. With the Meiji Restoration, he removed the topknot he had worn tied at the back of his head until then. Along the highways, the palanquins that once carried people vanished, and in their place rickshaws began to run. Yet Mr. Kikujirō’s status as a poor farmer never changed. And the fact that his left leg was crippled also never changed.

After a long life of dragging his left leg along as he worked diligently, growing older with wrinkles deepening, it was on the afternoon of May 3rd in a certain year that Mr. Kikujirō died.

However, on the morning of that very same day, the monk of Unganji Temple—who had deep ties to Mr. Kikujirō—had also died. The monk, just as Mr. Kikujirō had thought, appeared to be a man of remarkably strong fortune: without ever becoming lame, he remained vigorous throughout his life, his face glistening with oily sweat as he chanted sutras with alcohol-laden breath; he aged, drank nearly two liters of sake on the eve of his death, and when his time came, passed away without any suffering—simply collapsing in an instant.

Now then, up to this point I had been cheerfully narrating, but I find myself reluctant to continue with the story from here on. It is because I think you will not believe me. If it were merely that you wouldn’t believe me, that would be one thing—but I fear you might find it so absurd that you’d burst into laughter. However, since the story has not yet ended, I cannot stop here.

……Mr. Kikujirō was walking.

It was a long path with purple irises blooming on both sides. It was an extremely long path. Mr. Kikujirō felt he had walked a great distance already, yet there was still no sign of the path coming to an end. When he looked back, the path he had walked—bordered by purple irises—stretched straight onward, growing narrower in the distance until it vanished into a milky haze. The path he was about to take was in the same state, its end too vanishing into the milky haze. While thinking it was indeed a strange path all along, Mr. Kikujirō kept walking.

The sun was shining serenely. However, wondering where the sun was—just as he often did when working in the fields and growing hungry—even when Mr. Kikujirō looked all around, the sun was nowhere to be seen. And light alone streamed in from nowhere in particular, making everything pleasantly and serenely bright. Even when he looked at his own shadow, there was not a trace of anything resembling one, and Mr. Kikujirō was astonished. However, even as he walked while comforting himself with these words—"A change of place brings a change of luck"—Mr. Kikujirō...

Mr. Kikujirō noticed he was still dragging his limp. At that, he muttered to himself, "I was supposed to be dead, but seems even in death this limp hasn’t changed from when I was alive." And he thought that was absurd.

Before long, a human figure came into view far ahead. It seemed they were sitting on a stone by the roadside waiting for Mr. Kikujirō. Thinking it would be wonderful to have a companion, Mr. Kikujirō began to hurry, making the sound of his dragging left leg grow louder.

When he drew near and looked, it was the monk of Unganji Temple. The monk looked at Mr. Kikujirō with sleepy-looking eyes and spoke as follows:

“Please—there’s water springing up around here somewhere. Kiku, go scoop me a full ladle.” “I overdid the sake last night—my head’s still foggy, y’see.”

Mr. Kikujirō said, “Right away,” and went to search for the spring by following the sound. Beside the spring—as was often found near such springs—there lay a small ladle. From this, one could see that travelers too passed along this path, quenching their thirst at this spring when parched before continuing on their way.

Once the monk had finished drinking the water with apparent relish, the two of them began to walk. “Monk, I’ve been thinking since earlier that something’s off—really off, I must say.”

said Mr. Kikujirō.

“What?” “No matter how far we go, irises keep growing on both sides like this, I must say.” “Right.”

“This just doesn’t sit right with me, I must say. “If this is the road to Buddha’s land, there’s no need to plant nothing but irises like this. “I just think they could’ve planted at least some lotuses instead, I must say.” “Don’t be saying such foolish things.” With that, the Monk, seeming sleepy, closed his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry ’bout that.”

Kikujirō made a face that seemed apologetic.

After a while, Mr. Kikujirō spoke again.

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve never been able to tell irises from Japanese irises and rabbit-ear irises apart. What’s a body to do about that?” “How old’d you live to be?” “Ah, I’ve lived till seventy-three.”

“Seventy-three. “Seventy-three years you’ve lived like a fool, haven’t you.” “Hmm.” “And you still can’t tell irises from Japanese irises and rabbit-ear irises, can you.” “Hmm.”

“It’s because you’re a fool.” “Ah, that’s how it is.” Mr. Kikujirō thought he shouldn’t have brought up such things. Resolving to stay quiet now, Mr. Kikujirō walked on with his mouth shut. Only the sound of Mr. Kikujirō’s left leg dragging thudded, thudded.

Then the monk scowled, “That’s too loud!” “Can’t you lift your leg a bit when you walk?” “You’re kicking up nothing but damn dust!” said the monk. “Oh, I’m truly sorry.” “I’m doing my best to lift it like this…” And Mr. Kikujirō apologized profusely. “With this path we’re on—where might we be going now?”

After a while, Mr. Kikujirō asked again, “I reckon we’ll be going before Lord Enma anyway, won’t we?” “Yeah.”

“I’m not like you monks—when I’m before important people, I get all tongue-tied.” “Before Lord Enma, I’d be much obliged if you could put in a good word for me.” “Yeah.” “Well, I’ll do my best to put in a good word for you.” “But you didn’t visit the temple much when you were alive, did you.” “Hmm.” “You probably didn’t donate much rice or money to the temple either.” “Hmm, what with being poor and all, I never had time for temple visits nor any coin or rice to give to the temple.”

“That excuse won’t hold water.”

“I’m truly sorry.” And Mr. Kikujirō had to apologize yet again. “Will those who did foolish misdeeds still end up going to what they call hell, I wonder?” After a while longer, Mr. Kikujirō asked again. “I suppose that’s how it is.” And the monk said brusquely, exhaling boozy breath.

Mr. Kikujirō then tried to recall the various foolish things he had done. However, starting with trampling the rice, Mr. Kikujirō found himself recalling only his misdeeds. For instance, there was the time he made lion dance children who had come from Echigo perform various tricks, then chased them off without payment under the pretense of having no coins to spare; or when he picked up a kitten beneath an earthen bridge on his way back from the fields, only to abandon it at the same spot after belatedly recalling that living creatures require food.

Then the monk, laughing as well, tried to recall his own foolish deeds. However, perhaps because his head was still foggy from drink, the monk could not recall having trampled the rice together with Mr. Kikujirō at all. And true to his station as a monk, the things he recalled were all good—so much so that Mr. Kikujirō became convinced he must have led a splendid life.

Under these circumstances, he’d never be able to accompany the monk into what they called paradise, Mr. Kikujirō thought, growing utterly despondent. “Kiku, don’t drag your leg so much. “You’re kicking up nothing but damn dust!” And again the monk said. “Oh, my apologies.”

And Mr. Kikujirō wiped the sweat from his brow and apologized. "But Monk, you’re dragging one leg yourself."

And Mr. Kikujirō added. That was indeed the case. The monk too had been dragging one leg since earlier. “Now that you mention it, this leg of mine does seem to be hurting.”

And the monk said with a grimace.

After a while, the monk’s leg pain grew worse. “Monk, please let me carry you on my back. Why, even an old man like me can manage one or two of your sort.”

And Mr. Kikujirō, forgetting even his own leg, squatted down before the Monk. At that, the Monk did not hold back. The Monk was carried on Mr. Kikujirō’s back. Mr. Kikujirō staggered forward under the Monk’s weight as he proceeded.

Before long, a single rickshaw came approaching from the opposite direction.

“Ah, ha! You’ve come to welcome me. “Splendid, splendid—a rubber-wheeled rickshaw no less!”

And the monk said. “I have come to welcome you.”

said the man who had pulled the rickshaw.

And, “Who is the person who died on the afternoon of May 3rd?” he asked.

“It was May 3rd in the morning, I believe.” “I’m fairly certain I died in the forenoon.”

And the monk said.

“But I was told it was the afternoon of May 3rd...” “Then, the one who resided before the gates of Unganji Temple—?” And the rickshaw puller asked.

“It must concern someone within Unganji Temple itself.” And Mr. Kikujirō retorted. “No, I distinctly heard ‘in front of the gate.’” The rickshaw puller tilted his head. “You must have misheard ‘inside the gate’ as ‘in front of the gate’ and come here.” And the monk said as he was already climbing into the rickshaw.

“I don’t believe that’s the case.”

And the rickshaw puller raised his head and tilted it to the opposite side. "You should’ve listened more carefully before coming. This won’t do."

And the Monk scolded the rickshaw puller and settled heavily into the carriage. With no other choice, the rickshaw puller grasped the shafts and began to pull.

Mr. Kikujirō followed behind the rickshaw, dragging his limp as he went. And occasionally, “Monk, does your leg still hurt?”

he would ask.

Finally, they arrived at a place where the road forked to the right and left. There stood another person. When the rickshaw drew near, “Are you Kikujirō the farmer?”

The man asked the monk on the rickshaw. “No, I am the monk of Unganji Temple. If it’s Kikujirō the farmer you’re after, that’s him trailing along behind.” And the monk replied.

“In that case，you are mistaken．Monk，please get off the rickshaw．Mr．Kikujirō is the one who will ride．”

Then the monk said angrily: “My leg hurts, don’t you know? Do you think I can walk with this leg?!” “I’m a farmer, you know. I can walk as much as needed, you know. Riding in something like a rickshaw actually makes me feel unwell, you know, so I beg you—please let the Monk ride it instead.” And Mr. Kikujirō entreated as well.

Thereupon, the person standing at the fork in the road reluctantly consented. But he said as follows: “Mr. Kikujirō, please proceed along the right path; Monk, please take the left path.” “That won’t do,” said Mr. Kikujirō. “In life, I was always allowed to accompany you, Monk. For fifty years, I never once failed to offer the first rice and barley harvests, you know.”

However, no matter how much Mr. Kikujirō pleaded, they would not permit this one thing.

“I suppose that’s how it is,” said Mr. Kikujirō in a subdued voice. “When I think on it, you know, in life I did nothing but bad things.” “Perhaps it’s only natural that someone like me—who can’t even properly read a single sutra verse—and you, Monk, who’ve served Buddha your whole life, can’t go to the same place.”

And so Mr. Kikujirō and the Monk parted ways—Mr. Kikujirō to the right path, the Monk in the rickshaw to the left path.

The Monk was jostled along in the rickshaw. After a while, he looked back. He thought that Kiku the fool was probably still watching him from behind, lingering with reluctance.

Then the Monk was so startled that he widened his eyes. Mr. Kikujirō’s body, trudging off into the distance, was radiantly glowing with golden light. Mr. Kikujirō was no longer limping. Nor did he walk like an old man. That was the form of Buddha, well-known from paintings and carvings. ……The Monk involuntarily pressed his hands together in prayer at his retreating figure. “Ah,”

the Monk said with a sigh. “Now I see—that path leads to paradise, and this path leads to some wretched place….” The sky in the direction Mr. Kikujirō was advancing was clear and radiant in a beautiful pearl color.

When the Monk looked ahead on his own path, there—as if an evening shower were approaching—black clouds loomed thickly, and within them, lightning flickered.

……And once more, the Monk’s leg began to ache.