The next day, when Wu Aizhen gave the two letters to Keiko and asked her to pass the other one to Ren Qingfei, Keiko was both thrilled and amazed, as if she had received two urgent dispatches, and said she would read them with Ren Qingfei on Jizu Mountain. Wu Aizhen saw off Keiko, who was dressed beautifully and barely containing her joy, then took a taxi to the farm where her Master lived in retreat.
The door of the room was tightly shut, and the curtains were drawn from inside. She felt puzzled — was her Master in a dark retreat? It was shut up so tightly. She pushed the door open. The room was empty. The Buddha statue that had stood on the offering table had vanished, leaving only the cold, cheerless table. The meditation cushions were gone, too. Only the scroll of the character “Chan” written by the Master still hung on the wall.
“Wu Aizhen, is that you?” The farm owner, Zhang, came in after her.
“I couldn’t tell from a distance, but I thought it might be you.”
“Where is the Master? Wasn’t he doing retreat here?”
“Ah! You don’t know the Master has passed into nirvana? I thought you’d been over at the temple helping out these past few days.”
“The Master has passed into nirvana? When?” Wu Aizhen asked, stunned, not yet able to think of anything else.
“It’s been nine days. After the Master came out of retreat he went back to the temple from here, and that’s where he passed into nirvana. The temple sent people to remove the Buddha statue and took away the cushions, his daily belongings, his calligraphy and paintings, all his books. I begged them to leave this one piece.” As Zhang spoke, he gazed at the scroll with deep reverence. “But when the Master left, he gave me two strings of prayer beads — one long, one short. See?” He held out his wrist proudly, showing an amber-colored strand that Wu Aizhen knew the Master had worn every day. “Hey,” he suddenly lowered his voice mysteriously, leaning closer to Wu Aizhen, “the Master left the best thing for you. He asked me to pass it on. Wait here; I’ll go get it.” Zhang turned and rushed out.
Wu Aizhen was dazed; she still hadn’t come to terms with the shock of her Master’s passing. How could it be? The Master wouldn’t leave. How could he have left just like that? She moved numbly into the inner room. Besides the long table, there was the Master’s meditation cushion and his bed. The mosquito net was lowered; it had not been washed for a long time and seemed covered in dust, dim and gray.
She knelt down and stroked the table. The Master had truly left. That cushion was empty now; the Master would never smile at her again, showing his few remaining teeth. Nine days. Nine days ago she had been in Macau, celebrating her birthday, drinking happiness tea, nestling in Yamaguchi Mingchuan’s arms, receiving a magnificently beautiful Guanyin Bodhisattva statue.
Nine days ago she had thought about so many things, but she hadn’t thought about her Master. Master, how could you leave like this? I didn’t even get to see you one last time. Weren’t you a sage? In my heart I held you as a sage. You must have known the time of your passing from this world — why didn’t you let your “loving” disciple know before you left? At this thought, a fierce shame rose in Wu Aizhen. She gritted her teeth and scolded herself: Did you ever love him? Did you ever truly love your Master? Nine days ago, your mind was full of your lover; you never gave the Master a single thought. He left — why should he tell you? He simply left you, this heartless and disloyal disciple. The kindness you received from him, and now you won’t even have the chance to be grateful. He vanished from your life as suddenly as you once met him by chance. Tears poured down, soaking the front of her clothes. Like a child who had suddenly lost her mother, she knelt there, weeping bitterly in silence before her Master’s empty cushion and his bed. In her heart she berated herself a thousand, ten thousand times for not coming to visit him sooner…
“Are you done crying?” She turned. Zhang was standing there holding a box, looking at her with a solemn expression. She wiped her tears and stood up.
Zhang spoke with a grave, almost sacred tone: “Wu Aizhen, this is what the Master entrusted to me with the utmost gravity and solemnity when he left the farm. He said that the secret learning of his entire life and his whole transmission are contained in this. Now I, with equal gravity, pass on to you what the Master entrusted at his passing. I hope you will receive it with the most devout heart and live up to the Master’s high hopes.”
These words struck Wu Aizhen like thunder. Seeing Zhang’s manner — like a loyal minister entrusted with a deceased emperor’s orphan — she dropped to her knees before the box. With the greatest reverence, Zhang raised the box to his forehead, bowed deeply from the waist, and only then placed it in Wu Aizhen’s hands before stepping back with his hands at his sides. Wu Aizhen set the box on the table. It was carved from ivory with floral patterns and inlaid with turquoise, an offering made to the Master by a Tibetan disciple. It had once held a pair of Dharma instruments: the bell and vajra. The Master would sometimes place it beside his bed, sometimes next to his cushion. Wu Aizhen had wiped this box clean many times with a soft cloth.
On top of the box lay a small yellow cloth pouch that the Master had used to store his prayer beads. Wu Aizhen picked it up.
“Shall I step outside?” Zhang asked carefully and respectfully. Wu Aizhen thought for a moment and said, “Since the Master entrusted you with something so important, it shows how highly he valued and trusted you. I’m sure whatever the Master allowed me to see is not something he would hide from you. What need is there to avoid it?”
“Yes, the Master’s kindness to me is as weighty as a mountain.” Zhang seemed to be recalling something, obviously moved. Wu Aizhen opened the little pouch. Inside was a small key. She took it out — it was for the lock on the box.
As she unlocked the brass lock, she could feel Zhang standing beside her, holding his breath in deep concentration, watching with intense focus and a touch of nervousness. Suddenly flustered by his mood, Wu Aizhen felt her heart racing. The hand turning the key trembled slightly. As the lid opened, she heard Zhang gasp an “Ah!” — the box was completely empty…
“How can this be? I didn’t even tell my wife. How can there be nothing at all? There used to be a pair of Dharma instruments inside.”
Wu Aizhen did not hear him. The instant she saw that Emptiness, it was as though caught in a flash of lightning; she entered nirvana along with her Master. She rose abruptly. No more reliance, no need for verification, nothing to seek. The “mind” of over ten years of cultivation was severed. Heavenly mind, bright moon — she stood facing the wind; she let go as if from a cliff’s edge and shouldered everything alone.
The Dharma is empty, the Master is empty, the mind of attainment is empty. The Buddha spoke not a single word in forty-nine years.
“Since there is nothing to be attained, the Bodhisattva, through reliance on Prajna Paramita, has no impediments in the mind. Having no impediment, there is no fear; one leaves distorted dream-thinking far behind. Ultimate Nirvana.”
“Hey! Are you all right?” Zhang had recovered himself and asked with some concern.
“The Master leaving nothing in the box must have some hidden meaning. We just can’t figure it out yet. Take your time pondering it,” he said, trying to comfort Wu Aizhen.
“I guarantee that no one opened this box. I kept it in my safe, and I’m the only one with the key. This was the Master’s lifelong trust; I wouldn’t dare let anything happen to it,” Zhang explained, a little aggrieved. He was afraid Wu Aizhen suspected him of taking whatever had been inside.
Wu Aizhen smiled at him and said slowly, “You’ve already given me the most important thing the Master had to pass on. You needn’t have any doubt.”
“Oh? Did you attain enlightenment from that empty box?” Zhang asked with lively intelligence. “You’re the disciple the Master is proudest of. Maybe the Master transmitted the mind-dharma to you this way — something I can’t see.” Zhang stared at Wu Aizhen with curiosity, hoping she would reveal a hint of the mystery.
“Form itself is emptiness; emptiness itself is form,” Wu Aizhen said.
“Ah, forget it. I don’t understand that, though I can recite it too. The Master also left something for you to pass on — not for you, but for a disciple named Ding Yiming.” As he spoke, he fetched a mounted scroll from the outer room. Wu Aizhen unrolled it slowly. A startling character “De” leaped into view. One horizontal stroke, one sweeping diagonal — the brushwork rich and full — ancient, austere, and vigorous. As Wu Aizhen gazed at that character, she saw as if in deep darkness upon a sea of towering, turbid waves, suddenly from the black, swirling water, great logs drifted in from every direction. They rode the wind and cleaved the waves and swiftly assembled into this character “De.” Each log was an ancient giant tree of millennia, its trunk cracked and weathered by wind and frost, catching the moonlight in irregular streaks of white, like the flying-white in brushwork.
“Hey! Wasn’t the Master called Old Man of Heavenly Mind? How come it’s changed to ‘Human Mind’?” Zhang pointed to the inscription. Wu Aizhen saw that in the lower left corner of the character “De” were written the characters “Human Mind,” stamped with the square seal of “Old Man of Heavenly Mind.” “The human mind is the heavenly mind. Whatever the Master calls himself, it’s just a name, isn’t it?” She rolled up the scroll and said lightly to Zhang.
Zhang shook his head, a profound and inscrutable smile on his face. Clearly he disagreed with Wu Aizhen. Wu Aizhen looked at Zhang’s big head, which seemed full of “wisdom,” and smiled.
“I heard that after the Master’s body was cremated, many sarira appeared. One was shaped like a heart, very large, with the color of a sapphire. The news caused a stir among the disciples and devotees. It’s now on display at the temple to raise funds for building a stupa to enshrine it. I’m planning to go to the temple to see it. Are you coming?”
Wu Aizhen pondered for a moment, then shook her head. “I’d like to stay here a little longer. Please donate some money on my behalf to the Master’s sarira stupa.” She took out all the cash from her bag except what she needed for the taxi fare home and gave it to Zhang. Zhang counted it for her, then left with the money. At the door he looked back and said with concern, “Stay as long as you like. You can even spend the night here. Dinner is in the dining hall up ahead.”
Alone in the nearly empty room, Wu Aizhen felt everything was still so familiar and dear, as if the Master were still living there. She walked over to his small bed and lifted the mosquito net. She saw that the Master’s quilt had been folded very neatly and placed against the wall, and the quilt cover was new. This golden-yellow cover was the one Wu Aizhen had bought for her Master. She clearly remembered that embroidered in the center was a white lotus flower, and a white twin lotus was embroidered in each of the four corners. Although machine-embroidered, the lotus was very beautiful. Wu Aizhen had fallen in love with that white lotus the moment she saw it; it was for that lotus that she had bought the cover and offered it to her Master. But the Master had waved it off disdainfully: “Too gaudy. What’s an old monk doing with a lotus-patterned quilt? Take it off quickly. I want that gray one.”
She remembered at the time she had laughed and said, “Master, you’re still attached to appearances. Didn’t you once tell me that a great bodhisattva on the path to ferry sentient beings fears neither slander nor praise? And you’re so attached to a flowered quilt cover?” “Hm?! Change it back!” The Master had glared at her, angry. Wu Aizhen, frightened, had stuck out her tongue and obediently stripped off the cover she had just put on and replaced it with the gray cover the Master used year-round. It seemed to her that the Master was especially exacting about everything she did. Whatever she thought good, he found unworthy; whatever she found unworthy, he liked. And sometimes he was especially stubborn, not letting her argue at all. The Master was far better with his other disciples, much more easygoing and tolerant. Because of this, Wu Aizhen was a little afraid of the Master, yet in her heart she loved and revered him like a father. He had probably treated her much like his own daughter — strict yet kind — so no matter how fastidious he was, she was always happy, feeling it showed his special favor toward her. After the Master’s departure, she found that he had put this never-before-used new cover on the quilt and folded it neatly. Could it be that he knew she would come late and wanted to comfort her? At this thought, she gently opened the quilt, wanting to see that beautiful lotus in the center one more time. Suddenly, she froze. Inside the quilt lay the Master’s usual begging bowl. And inside the bowl, tightly wrapped in a yellow khatag, were the bell and vajra — the Master’s bowl and his Dharma instruments. Tears poured from Wu Aizhen’s eyes. She lifted the bowl and hugged them tightly to her chest, weeping so hard that tears and snot ran down her face. Through her blurred vision she seemed to see the Master making a playful face at her from the air, his expression like that of a child playing hide-and-seek with her. She couldn’t help laughing through her tears. She placed the bell and vajra back into the empty box; as she closed the lid, she said softly, “Master, you’ve gone, yet you still turn back to play a joke on your disciple.”
She seemed to see the Master like a naughty child whose scheme had just worked, grinning so hard he couldn’t stop, showing his few remaining teeth.
She picked up the Master’s begging bowl and the box containing the Dharma instruments and quietly walked out of that room. She felt the box was heavy, and her shoulders, too, were heavy…
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