Zen Stories

12. Happy Chinaman
Anyone walking about Chinatowns in America will observe statues of a stout fellow carrying a linen sack. Chinese merchants call him Happy Chinaman or Laughing Buddha.

This Hotei lived in the T’ang dynasty. He had no desire to call himself a Zen master or to gather many disciples about him. Instead he walked the streets with a big sack into which he would put gifts of candy, fruit, or doughnuts. These he would give to children who gathered around him in play. He established a kindergarten of the streets.

Whenever he met a Zen devotee he would extend his hand and say: 'Give me one penny.' And if anyone asked him to return to a temple to teach others, again he would reply: 'Give me one penny.’

Once as he was about his play work another Zen master happened along and inquired: 'What is the significance of Zen?'
Hotei immediately plopped his sack down on the ground in silent answer.
‘Then,' asked the other, 'what is the actualization of Zen?'
At once the Happy Chinaman swung the sack over his shoulder and continued on his way.
 

13. A Buddha
In Tokyo in the Meiji era there lived two prominent teachers of opposite characteristics. One, Unsho, an instructor in Shingon, kept Buddha's precepts scrupulously. He never drank intoxicants, nor did he eat after eleven o'clock in the morning.

The other teacher, Tanzan, a professor of philosophy at the Imperial University, never observed the precepts. When he felt like eating he ate, and when he felt like sleeping in the daytime he slept.

One day Unsho visited Tanzan, who was drinking wine at the time, not even a drop of which is supposed to touch the tongue of a Buddhist.
'Hello, brother,' Tanzan greeted him. 'Won't you have a drink?'
'I never drink!' exclaimed Unsho solemnly.

'One who does not drink is not even human,’ said Tanzan.
'Do you mean to call me inhuman just because I do not indulge in intoxicating liquids!' exclaimed Unsho in anger. Then if I am not human, what am I?'
'A Buddha.' answered Tanzan.
 

14. Muddy Road
Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling. Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection.

'Come on, girl,' said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud. Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself.

'We monks don't go near females.' He told Tanzan, especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?'
'I left the girl there,' said Tanzan. 'Are you still carrying her?'