The Part of Me That Isn't Broken Inside

by Kazufumi Shiraishi

  Before I knew it, I’d stepped into the room, found a copy of Baien Miura’s Gengo, which I’d always yearned to read, and held it in my hands. As I frantically flipped through its pages, I heard a voice behind me and looked back in surprise.

  Standing there by the doorway was a petite, middle-aged woman wearing a smile.

  And that was Machiko-san.

  You like books?

  I was trying to put the book back on the shelf in a hurry, and I nodded shyly.

  You’re the student always reading under that tree over there, aren’t you? It’s a rare sight nowadays to see someone doing that, she said rather condescendingly. Please forgive me, I said, returning the book and passing by her side to exit the room when she powerfully caught hold of my arm. I got annoyed and was compelled to confront her round, freckled face. However, looking into her big, dark eyes up close, I quickly realized that she wasn’t accusing me at all, or getting angry with me in any way.

  Where are you going in such a hurry? Machiko-san said, laughing with her mouth wide open.

  My association with Machiko-san began that day; it was about one month after I’d moved in, when I was in the tenth grade, in the month of May.

  I came to frequent Koboji to pore through the books on that bookshelf, and before long, I was also bringing along my younger sister and doing my homework or watching TV in one of the many rooms of the tenement house, which was surrounded by a large garden; sometimes the two of us would even join Machiko-san to enjoy

  the dinner she’d prepare.

  Machiko-san was the eldest daughter of the temple’s abbot, and although she’d been married and had left the temple, she was diagnosed with a debilitating disease and ended up parting from her husband and returning to Koboji, her childhood home. She was forty-five but appeared very youthful, looking about the same age as my mother. Her affliction was Parkinson’s disease, and at the time several years had already passed since she’d contracted it, with the light shaking of hands and palsy starting to set in.

  Machiko-san, without a doubt, taught me a lot of things. She’d looked after my sister and me for less than three years, in the last years of her life, when her condition was inevitably taking a turn for the worse. So it should’ve been a harsh time for her, when an onslaught of severe symptoms would surface, robbing her of her physical freedom. But looking back on those years now, I have absolutely no recollection of her suffering in any way. Machiko-san was always lively and gentle. The only recollection I have of her that’s in any way related to her disease is the memory of her eating salted loquat seeds often, while reading books. And if I, or my younger sister, wasn’t feeling all that well, she’d shake out, with great care, these seeds from a bottle she used to carry, one black seed at a time, and feed them to us.

  Doctors can’t cure my disease, you see. But the loquat takes good care of me.

  Machiko-san went on to explain how good the loquat was for the body. She told us that she never went through a day without undergoing thermotherapy—a treatment made possible by loquat leaves; she’d make compresses out of the leaves and apply them to her hands and feet, which tended to stiffen. She even showed us, more than once, these loquat leaves fixed on her waist and shoulders. They were literally just leaves stuck onto her affected parts with adhesive tape, so I wondered if they really worked at all. The only other thing that reminded me of her illness was the fact that the rice she used to serve was always unpolished rice, cooked with a mixture of black soybeans, adzuki beans, and hato mugi.

  The reason why my younger sister had gotten all worked up over treating Mother with alternative medicine was because she’d seen Machiko-san championing it. So, naturally, my younger sister eagerly went about administering a regimen that made use of loquat leaves. But apparently it didn’t work.

  Whatever I do, deep down inside, Mom doesn’t believe, she told me once, regretting how different Mother and Machiko-san were.

  It was Machiko-san who first taught me that humans are born without a purpose.

  Being ill herself, Machiko-san was an ardent admirer of Ichiro Tsuneoka, a man who had narrowly escaped from a death due to tuberculosis before devoting himself to relief work for war orphans in Fukuoka.

  Oftentimes, she’d talk about him, referring to him as Tsuneoka sensei, and sometimes she’d even hand over a copy of his writings for me to read.

  I’ve forgotten most of it, but there’s one part that remains etched in my memory to this day. It’s a Q&A titled Why Are People Born?, which went as follows.

  Why Are People Born?

  Q: Next spring, I’ll graduate from college. I’ll be entering society. I’ll be entering the world of adults. However, having seen the world made by adults so far, I can’t say that I have respect for it. Whenever I see or hear about it through newspapers, radio programs, and magazines, the world seems to be filled with too many sad things and too much nonsense. Dishonest and sly people make their way in the world, and people of high social status throw their weight around, practicing corruption and skillfully getting away with it. It’s totally disgusting. Why should people have to go on living in this world, when it’s so unfair and underhanded? It absolutely baffles me. What I’d like to ask you is, Why are human beings born?

  A: Such a question really bothers me. I can’t give you an answer.

  Q: Why not?

  A: Because it’s something I don’t understand myself. I have no idea why we’re born.

  Q: What? Even someone like you doesn’t know the purpose of being born? Someone who goes about working every day with such zest, such energy?

  A: That’s right. I don’t. I was born without a purpose after all. I came into this world devoid of thought, devoid of power; I didn’t wish for a thing, and I didn’t seek anything either. I’m sure I was born without intention and without a plan. Therefore, instead of saying that I was born I should be saying that I was made to be born by some other will than my own. And so you see, I’m not qualified to provide an answer to your question, what my birth was for.

  Q: Indeed, I see. I suppose you could then say that I’m also someone who was made to be born. So just to be clear, you’re telling me that humans aren’t born of their own accord, but are compelled to be born?

  A: Yes, that’s right. The young philosopher, Misao Fujimura, said, Life is incomprehensible, before jumping into Kegon Falls and ending his life. He’d gone around asking the question, what’s a person’s birth for. He’d read books. But he never arrived at any kind of understanding, and so he died, you see. So perhaps you should stop asking me why a person is born, and instead ask me, Why is a person made to be born, what do I think about that? If you do I’ll be able to offer an answer.

  Q: Fine. So why is a person made to be born?

  A: So that he or she can grow, probably.

  Q: Wait, what? Grow? What makes you say such a thing?

  A: It’s plain to see that people keep growing. Their minds and bodies, year after year, experience growth. Anything that doesn’t grow will fall into ruin and die. Anything that doesn’t die will go on to grow. And that’s why I primarily believe that a person is made to be born in order to grow. Now, one must consider how one achieves this growth. The answer lies in achieving harmony by synthesizing dual contradictions. After you breathe in, you always breathe out. You ceaselessly continue to do so, even late at night, without ever feeling reluctant about it. You always harmonize these two conflicting actions of inhalation and exhalation. After you eat, you get hungry. After you get hungry, you eat. You wake up, and then you sleep. You sleep, and then you wake up. You repeat these processes energetically, cheerfully, punctually, and, consequently, harmonize. Isn’t this how we achieve growth every day? To understand how our human world has grown until now you must see the cycle of birth and death, of death and birth; you must see that life and death are two faces of the same coin. It’s taught that the world has been reborn many times prior to arriving at the state it’s in today. If you realize this, can you not also the
n see that there’s a road to growth made possible by being made to be born in a place where all dualities collapse? Where a thesis and an antithesis can collide to achieve a wonderful synthesis? The face of a human being always faces outward, toward a distance, does it not? There’s no one who has his or her face turned toward himself, you see. When two people talk to each other, the reason why they can reach an agreement is because they’re, in effect, two individuals with outwardly looking faces, facing each other. However great or smart a person may be, no one can see his own face all by himself. It’s only when he looks into the mirror that he can for the first time gain knowledge of his own face through the reflection that appears there. So without the mirror, even though the face of others will always be visible to him, he’ll die without ever having seen his own face. Now, just as you need a reflection to know your own face, you also need a reflection to know your inner self. And the mirror that will give you this reflection of your inner self is religion, I believe. Let me clarify this point with a simple analogy. For instance, let me talk about the daikon, the Japanese radish. If I ask, Oh Daikon, why have you been born, the daikon will answer, I was born for no reason. I was brought into this world without any purpose, without any intention of my own. My birth was brought about by divine providence. And I was cultivated by humans with the utmost care. That’s what the daikon would say. Now, if I were to ask, why do you think you were brought into this world and cultivated, the daikon would likely say, I was probably brought into this world to be eaten by humans, and the humans seem to have cultivated me for that very purpose. But you may wonder how I can say such a thing? Well, I can because my ancestors, the Clan of Daikons, from generation to generation, have been eaten by humans. Therefore, I believe that I too will most likely be eaten by humans eventually, just as all my descendants will. Yes, I believe that I must have been created and cultivated to be eaten by humans. That is how the daikon would answer. Now, let us assume that the daikon looks into himself and thinks of only his own interests. My ancestors, he will think, "were also eaten by humans. I too will be eaten before long. My offspring will be eaten too. So come to think of it, my life

  is wretched and lamentable. The relationship between human and daikon is that of archenemies: we can’t co-exist. It would be fair if we’d been eating them too; the score would be even then, but our relationship is one in which only we daikons are consumed. It’s absolutely shameful. I must avenge this ancestral injustice and deliver my progeny from this evil; I must take revenge. And so I’ll become a terribly bitter daikon. If I become so bitter that the person who eats me will learn a lesson, I’ll surely be taking revenge then. However, humans will consequently decide to never again produce a daikon as bitter as me, condemning my offspring to a fate of extinction. And so I think that any point of view that arises from taking only my personal feelings into account can only lead me down the road to ruin. In contrast, what would happen if I took the interests of the other party into account? What if I entertain the idea of letting them live? Without the effort and care expended by humans, after all, we daikons would fail to grow. I believe we’ll be eaten and killed off by insects while we’re still sprouting. The reason why we fortunately mature into ripe daikons is all due to the fact that we’re the fruit of human endeavor. So how can I express my gratitude toward humans? How can I make them happy? Well, to this end, I can become extremely delicious. What’s more, I can become a daikon that can become the pride of a family. My seeds will then be sent to an aunt in Oita Prefecture, and even to a cousin in Saitama Prefecture. In fact, my seeds will be sent everywhere. Without wishing, without demanding, I’ll have set out on the road to my progeny’s prosperity. To live and to die, to inhale and to exhale. To sleep and to awaken. To eat and to become hungry. Myself and others. To let live and to be allowed to live. Everything comes in twos, don’t they? And so, I’ll let people thrive. I’ll let my partner thrive. I’ll make them all happy. Make them grow. I’ll protect them."

  Such thoughts and deeds, I believe, form the core of the ascetic training you need to dedicate yourself to, body and soul, every single day.

  In this training, I believe I’ve found a road where I’m condemned and saved at the same time.

  Has what I’ve been saying served as an answer to the question, Why have humans been made to be born? In the end, to devote your entire being to emptying yourself, day after day, so that you may give yourself to others, so that you may forgive them, so that you may help them grow, is the road to achieving your own growth. This is what I believe.

  After the bones were picked and put into an urn, the funeral service was over. It was the second time for me to experience kotsuage, this ritual using large chopsticks to pick bones out of the ashes. Machiko-san’s bones were white as snow and beautiful, but in the case of my mother, her pelvis and ribs were terribly discolored. My younger sister, while picking the darkish bones, was sobbing.

  Poor Momma, she was saying, your bones are so spoiled by the disease.

  But I on the other hand, staring at those same bones, felt that the essence of Mother’s life had finally been released from the skeletal frame that had been holding old age, illness, and death, and had flown away to a world without suffering. After returning to the assembly hall and enshrining the urn on the altar, the Shonanuka—the Buddhist memorial service held on the seventh day after a person’s death—was performed. Afterward, I went up to the second floor and had some food from a catering service with the relatives and neighbors while exchanging cups of sake with them. The gathering adjourned at seven, and I returned to my childhood home for the first time in a long while. As expected, fatigue weighed heavily on my entire body, so when I arranged my futon alongside my sister’s and stretched out on it in the six-mat room that served as a living room, I was immediately overcome by an intense drowsiness. Placing the palm of my hand on my mother’s urn by the pillow and rubbing its smooth porcelain surface, I slid, before I knew it, into a deep pool of sleep.

  The next morning I awoke at six and stepped outside, but only after getting out of my futon carefully so as not to awaken my sister, who was breathing peacefully beside my futon. As expected, with only a spotty number of commuters outside, the morning was quiet, and just like the day before, the sky was clear with a cool breeze blowing through the area. I headed for the Koboji temple. The gates were already open and the deserted precincts were thoroughly swept. Two years after Machiko-san died, her father, the abbot of the temple, had also passed away, and now the eldest son was serving as his successor.

  The giant camphor tree was now dense with dark green leaves, creating a deep, airy shade around its base under the powerful light of the early summer sun.

  Inside the main hall, a profound stillness reigned supreme.

  I sat on the floor, with my back straight, in front of the statue of Lord Buddha, the Sakyamuni-butsu, whom I

  hadn’t seen in three years, and reported my mother’s death, joining my hands in prayer while closing my eyes. I also conveyed the same to Machiko-san.

  There was now a charnel house built beside the cemetery, and I intended to deposit my mother’s bones there. That way, come summertime, during the Bon Festival, Mother will be able to return to me and my younger sister as a gust of wind, and then blow back there again.

  As I recall, there was an incident that occurred on August fifteenth of the year Machiko-san died; it was the last day of the Bon Festival. Although the daily routines of my summer vacation usually involved studying in one of the rooms in the tenement house I’d borrow, the spring exams were near at hand, so I used to head for Koboji early in the morning every day, and study there for the exams, nonstop, until late in the evening. Since Mother couldn’t afford to let me take summer courses at a prep school, and since I was among the minority who aimed to get into a national university in Tokyo, in a high school where most chose to attend Kyushu University, I didn’t belong to any collaborative study group of friends. Even though my younger sister often used to study togeth
er with me, at that time, since we were having the Bon holidays, she was staying over at her relative’s house in Kumamoto, so I used to go to Koboji alone. In the daytime though, since the traffic of danka—the temple parishioners—who came in to pray was ceaseless, there was no way I could stay in the tenement house, so I resolved to visit the temple late at night and study there until early in the morning.

  On the evening of the fifteenth, around ten, when I passed through the main gates and went up to the main hall as usual, I found Machiko-san vacuuming the place alone, with all the doors and windows thrown open. Since the Bon Festival saw people coming and going from early in the morning, it was customary to clean up the main hall at night for several days. When I stepped inside, Machiko-san switched off the vacuum cleaner and beckoned me over. She was standing just around the center of the spacious hall. As I approached her, she took my arm and drew me even closer.

  The moment the sound of the vacuum cleaner stopped, a profound stillness ruled the main hall.

  What’s the matter? I asked, but she shushed me, placing her forefinger over my lips and breaking into a smile.

  Naoto-kun, do you feel that? she whispered.

  Standing next to her, I followed her cue and listened carefully while surveying the interior of the main hall with wide-eyed wonder. At first, all I could sense was the jet-black darkness that lay beyond the windows, and the pristine, pin-drop silence of the hall. But after a while, I felt a gentle breeze brush past my entire body, streaming through from the opened door and windows, following a direct trajectory to the two of us standing in the center of the main hall. And this strange wind seemed like it was made up of many thin strands, which kept blowing, one after another, into the hall from the open air outside. Once I started to feel these streams, they even began to whistle in my ears.