Kenji Miyazawa
Kenji Miyazawa may be called as Japanese Saint-Exupery. His poems and stories are widely received by many in Japan as well as in overseas. We adults have been once children perhaps listening to stories like those Kenji wrote. Hope we have not lost the little fire and inquisitive mind we had in those days. Take care, have a good day, good life!!! - Kio Suzaki (1/07/03)
- Perhaps one of the most popular site: http://www.kenji-world.net/english/
- Who is Kenji Miyazawa: http://www.kenji-world.net/english/who/who.html
Miyazawa
Kenji, Rebel With a Cause
Rain wouldn’t
beat me
One of his famous poems, written in his dairy discovered after his death. (I put my translation of this poem in the epilogue of my book, The New Shop Floor Management.” This translation is taken from: http://k-space.net/tops/pages/rain.html (There are other works in this site. You can listen to a lady reading this and other excerpts of Kenji’s work in English at: http://k-space.net/tops/)
Rain wouldn’t beat me
Wind wouldn’t beat me
Snow nor heat could beat me
Have a healthy body
Possess no greed
Never get angry
Always with a tranquil smile
Have four cups of brown rice a day
And some beans and vegetables
Do not count myself
In anything
Have profound knowledge and understanding
And keep it in mind
Live in a small thatched hut
Behind some pine trees in a field
In the east, if there is a sick child
Go and look after him
In the west, if there is a tired mother
Go and carry that bunch of rice plants for her
In the south, if there is a dying man
Go and tell him he need not be frightened
In the north, if there is a fight or a law suit
Tell them to stop it because it does not get them anywhere
Shed tears when a drought strikes
Walk helplessly when stricken with a cold summer
Be called ‘brockhead’ by everyone
Never be praised
Yet burden to no one
Such a person
I wish to be
Miyazawa Kenji, Rebel With a Cause
By Roger Pulvers
He drew from nature in a way that
no other modern Japanese author had before him. He
observed, absorbed and recreated it with neither fashioned counterworking nor
the artifice of traditional lament. In the
introduction to his collection of short stories, The Restaurant of Many Orders,
he set himself up as an experimental medium for the chaotic processes of
natural phenomena. He saw himself as a simple vehicle for reprocessing nature itself.
"These stories of mine," he wrote in
1923, "all came to me from moonlight and
rainbows, at places like railroad tracks and fields and forests."
As a writer and poet of the plein air variety, he
trekked from the rolling farmland and the marshes to the jagged mountains of
his native Iwate Prefecture, composing what he termed modified mental sketches. Then he went one step further and
pictured himself in terms of light.
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The phenomenon called I Is a single green illumination Of a presupposed organic
alternating current lamp The single illumination Of karma's alternating current
lamp Remains alight without fail Flickering unceasingly Together with the sights of
the land and all else |
The Musical Curing of Mice
Brief Outline found at: http://www.kenji-world.net/english/works/texts/cello.html
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The cellist became a good player,
learning from music-loving animals. |
Gorsch
was the man who played the cello at the moving picture theater in town, but
out of all his fellow musicians he was the worst player. He
belonged to the Venus Orchestra, which was preparing for a performance at the
town's concert hall, and the conductor always bullied Gorsch
during rehearsal because of his bad playing. Every day after coming home to the mill
house where he lived, Gorsch would practice the
music they had been rehearsing until late at night. One
night, starting with a cat, different kinds of animals bagan
to visit him in turn during his practice, to ask him to play the cello or to
accompany them in their own musical practice. Gorsch was so frustrated at being belittled by the
conductor that at first, he vented his irritation on the animals. But without realizing it, he gradually learned from the
animals, who responded with enthusiasm to his music. In
time, he became able to give a fine, expressive performance.
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The first
night, a tortoiseshell cat came to Gorsch and asked
him to play Schumann's "Traumerei." But Gorsch was irritated,
so instead he ferociously played a piece called "Tiger Hunt in India." This so startled the cat that it leapt up and down
in astonishment. |
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Voice training for cuckoo |
The next night,
a cuckoo came to him to receive voice training with cello accompaniment.The
bird said it wanted to learn how to sing scales, but in actuality, Gorsch ended up being forced to play "cuckoo,
cuckoo" repeatedly. Finally he got angry and
shouted, "That's enough! If you don't get out
I'll pluck your feathers and eat you for breakfast, you stupid bird!" The cuckoo was frightened into flying up against
the window, hitting against it with its beak so that it bled. |
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Concert with a badger cub |
The third
night, a little badger visited Gorsch. The badger's father had told him to "go to Mr. Gorsch" in order to learn how to play the side drum
in time with the cello. Gorsch
obligingly played the cello for this little animal. |
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The field mouse asked for the
musical curing. |
The fourth
night, a field mouse knocked at his door. |
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Success of the concert |
On the night of
the concert at the town hall, the members of the Venus Orchestra received a
storm of applause for their performance. Upon being
asked for an encore, the conductor told Gorsch to
go play something for the audience. Gorsch thought he was being made a fool of, so he played
"Tiger Hunt in India," as he had done to scare the cat. After finishing, he hurriedly took refuge in the
musicians' room. But there he found the conductor,
who said, "Gorsch, that was wonderful! That music may not be anything much, but you really kept
us listening." |
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Material in quotation marks is |
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The following two stories are translated by George Wallace:
See: http://www.kenji-world.net/english/download/download.html
Dragon and The Poet
Chanata the dragon lifted himself up out of the water that
poured into his cave as high tide approached. The
morning sun shone in through the entrance to the cave, lighting up the uneven
surface of the rocks on the sea bottom. Many red and
white creatures could be seen, clinging to the rocks.
Chanata gazed sleepily into the blue, slightly murky water. Then he looked out through the cave entrance at the
glistening sea, and at the bright yellow ball of fire on the horizon, the seat
of the sun god.
"If I were free, I could row far out over the sea. I could fly up into the blue sky and set the black clouds
into motion with my torch-like breath.
But I am trapped here. The crack leading from this
cave to the sea is just wide enough for me to glimpse what lies beyond. Oh, Holy King of the Dragons, forgive me for my crimes! Free me from your curse!"
With a sad look on his face, Chanata
turned his gaze once more to the cave's interior. The
sun's rays now fell upon his tail in the water, as it lay there reflecting the
light, twinkling blue and white. Suddenly the dragon
heard the sound of a young man's voice coming from outside the cave.
He looked to see who it was.
"Most honorable and esteemed Chanata,
I have come here today bidden by the morning sun to ask you for your
forgiveness."
A well-dressed young man, wearing a necklace and with a
long sword at his side, was sitting on some moss-covered stones outside the
cave.
"Why are you asking me for forgiveness?"
"Dear dragon, yesterday I took part in a poetry
recital competition and everyone overwhelmed me with their praise. Alta, the most famous of all the poets, stepped down from
his chair, bowed before me and offered me his seat of honour. He crowned me with awards, singing my praises in a
four-verse hymn before retiring into solitude far in the East at the foot of
the snowy mountains. I was intoxicated by the beauty
of the song I had sung as if I were drunk on wine. I
felt numbed by the speeches of praise and the bouquets of flowers that rained
down upon me from all sides, engulfing me.
But far into the night, after I had left the house of my rich host and was
walking over the glistening dew on the grass on my way home to my poor mother's
house, the seat of the moon god was suddenly hidden behind clouds and
everything became dark. As I looked up, I could hear a
gentle voice coming from the Miruda Wood.
'Young Surdatta stole his song
from the old dragon Chanata who is trapped in his
cave. Today in the poetry contest Surdatta
used this song for his own ends, driving the old poet Alta off into a life of
solitude in the East.'
Suddenly my legs began to shake. I
couldn't go on any further, even though I wanted to. So
I sat there on the grass the whole of last night, my head pounding with
confusion. As I sat there thinking things over, I
remembered that for days I had been coming to sit on the cliff that overhangs
this cave, never realizing that you were here. I have
often fallen asleep here, weary from my studies and my singing. I must have heard this song on a windy, overcast day
whilst I was taking an afternoon nap. Most honorable Chanata, I will tomorrow scatter ashes upon my head, I will
sit down in the great square in the town and beg you and all the people for
forgiveness.
Will you, my esteemed teacher, the one who composed this wonderful song, will
you be kind enough to forgive me?"
"What kind of hymn was it that the poet Alta sang to
praise you, before retiring into solitude in the East?"
"I am so confused by everything that has happened to
me that I can no longer remember the wonderful verses, but I think they went
something like this :
"No sooner has the wind sung, the clouds echoed and
the waves resounded than you sing their song, Surdatta. You are a prophet who envisions a model of truth and
beauty for tomorrow's world after which the stars yearn and the land shapes
itself and who eventually makes the world become so. You
are an architect, Surdatta."
"May the worthy and noble poet Alta find happiness
wherever he maybe. Surdatta,
that song is yours as well as mine. Did you really
believe that you heard that song while you were sitting up there above my cave? Oh, Surdatta!
At that time I was the wind and the clouds. And you were the wind and the clouds, too. The poet Alta would probably have sung the same song if he
had meditated then. But, Surdatta,
Alta's language would have been different from yours, and yours from mine. And the rhythm would have been different, too. So, that song is yours."
"Oh, Mr Dragon! Does that mean you've forgiven me?"
"Who is supposed to be forgiving whom? We are all, each and every one of us, the wind, the clouds
and the water. Surdatta, if
I were only able to leave this cave, and if you were not afraid of me, I would
so much like to hold you in my arms and comfort you. Here,
let me at least give you a little present. Stretch out
your hand to me."
The dragon held out a small red pearl which glowed with
an inner fire of immense power.
"You must take this pearl with you when you go to
the sea to look for the sunken Holy Sutras."
Surdatta kneeled down low to receive the pearl and said to the
dragon, "Oh, Mr Dragon, I have wanted this for
such a long time! I don't know how to begin to thank
you. But why can't such a mighty dragon as yourself leave this rocky cave?"
"Surdatta, a long time
ago, many thousands of years ago when I was the ruler of the wind and the
clouds, I once wanted to test out my strength and in doing so, I brought great
misfortune upon mankind. So the Dragon King banished
me to this cave for a hundred thousand years, to guard over the border between
the land and the sea. Every day that I spend here, I
regret my misdeed and beg the King for forgiveness."
"Mr Dragon, I still have
my mother to look after, but once she is reborn and happy in Heaven, I will
then go into the sea and search for the Great Sutras. Will
you wait here in the cave until that day comes?"
"To a dragon, a thousand human years are no more
than ten days."
"Please look after this pearl for me until that day
comes. I want to come here every day that I can, to
look up at the sky, to gaze into the water and to observe the clouds. And as I do so, I want to talk with you about the creation
of a new world."
"And if you do, you will make this old dragon very
happy indeed."
"Farewell!"
"Farewell to you!"
Surdatta walked off over the rocks with a happy heart. Chanata the dragon hid himself
deep in the water in the furthest corner of his cave and softly began to recite
his prayers of repentance.
The
Child of the Wild Geese
In the south of the desert, sitting at the side of a small spring surrounded by willow trees, I mixed my roasted barley with water, and began to eat my lunch. Soon an old pilgrim arrived. In silence we bowed to one another. On my travels I had not met a single soul all morning, and was reluctant to get up and leave the spring and the pilgrim once I had finished my meal.
For a while I could not take my eyes off the old man's prominent Adam's apple
as it jerked up and down while he ate. I wanted so
very much to strike up a conversation with him, but he sat there so quietly
that I felt reluctant to disturb him.
Then I suddenly discovered that behind the spring there was
a small shrine. It was so small a geographer or an
explorer could easily have carried it away with him as a relic. It was still quite new, painted yellow and red, and seemed
rather strange. Before it stood a simple banner.
I noticed that the old man seemed to have finished his meal,
so I asked him, "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to know to whom this place
is dedicated, would you?"
I realized that the old man too had been anxious to start a conversation. After nodding to me two or three times in silence as he
swallowed down the last of his food, he spoke to me in a quiet voice.
"It is dedicated to the child of the . . ."
"What kind of child?"
"They say he was The Child of The Wild Geese."
The old man put his plate to one side and bending down,
scooped up some spring water to wash out his mouth.
"They say he was The Child of The Wild Geese, and his
story has been handed down to us as if it were a fairy-tale. They
say he was a child from heaven who appeared in this region not so long ago. Such shrines as this one are to be found everywhere today,
even on the other side of the desert."
"A child came down from heaven? Was
it banished from the skies for some crime it had committed?"
"That I do not know for sure, but it is often rumoured to be so by the people hereabouts. Perhaps that was indeed the reason."
"Please would you tell me his story? Or
are you in a hurry to be on your way?"
"No, I'm in no hurry at all. I
will tell you everything I know. In Sasha there lived a man by the name of Kei Suriya. People said he was from a
famous family. But now he had fallen on hard times and
was living a simple life with his wife. He spent his
time copying old Buddhist sutras while his wife weaved away at her loom.
One morning Suriya went out for a
walk into the fields with his cousin who was carrying a gun. On
the ground lay beautiful blue and green stones, the sky looked hazily white and
the smell of snow was in the air.
Suriya asked his cousin if it
wasn't about time he put a stop to his habit of killing animals for his own
amusement. His cousin replied in a curt voice that he had no intention of changing his ways.
'What a cruel, heartless fellow you are! Have
you any idea at all what kind of creatures they are that you spend your time
wounding and killing?
Whatever they may be, their lives are poor and wretched,'Suriya reminded him once
again.
'You may be right, but then again you may be wrong. If things are as you say, that makes it all the more fun
for me. Why don't you stop going on and on about all
this? I have heard it all before, in those sermons the
priests used to give us. Look over there! There go some wild geese! Just
you watch me shoot them down!' Suriya's
cousin grabbed his rifle and ran off in hot pursuit. Suriya stood there, staring at the large black geese as
they flew by in formation.
Suddenly a shot rang out. The lead
goose was hit in the chest and reeled from side to side before bursting into
flames and careering to the ground, screaming pitifully. Bang! Up flew another bullet, piercing the chest of the next
goose. Yet none of the other birds made the least
attempt to scatter and flee. On the contrary, they
flew after their two wounded brothers, crying and screaming all the while.
A third bullet flew up into the air, and then a fourth. Soon six bullets had been fired and six geese hit; only
the very last bird, a small one, was still left. The
six burning geese were doubled up in pain as they fell out of the sky screaming
in agony. The small goose in the rear followed them,
weeping. Even in the throes of death, the geese
maintained formation as they plunged to earth.
Suddenly, to Suriya's horror, all
the geese turned into humans; now there were six people engulfed in flames
screaming and writhing in pain. Behind them came a
beautiful heavenly child, the only one to have escaped injury.
Suriya recognized the child --- there was no
doubt about it. The first of the six figures crashed
to the ground. It was an old man with a white beard. Collapsing in flames onto the ground, he put his bony
hands together as if to beg a favour of Suriya. He screamed in agony.
'Please, Mr Suriya,
I beg of you. Please take care of my grandson for me!'
Suriya ran to him and said, 'Yes,
of course I will look after him. But what has happened
to you?'
One after another the wild geese fell to earth, burning in
flames. They were all adults and one of them was a
woman with a beautiful necklace. According to later
reports, the woman was supposed to have stretched out her hands towards the
child as it ran round and round her in a circle crying. The
old man spoke once more.
'We belong to a heavenly race. For
our sins we were turned into wild geese, but now at last our sins have been
atoned and we can go back to heaven. Only my grandson
cannot yet go back. His fate is linked with yours. I beg of you, please bring up this child as if he were
your own.'
'Please do not worry. I give you my
word that I'll look after him as if he were my own,' Suriya
reassured him.
Whereupon the old man rubbed his hands together in prayer. As his head sank down and touched the earth, suddenly
flames leaped up into the sky, and the figures and their shadows were no more.
Suriya and his cousin, with his rifle
slung over his shoulder, stood there stunned and amazed, as if they had
experienced the same dream together. Later however,
the cousin told of how his rifle was still hot and that he had six bullets less
than when he had set out earlier that morning. The
grass where the six figures had fallen on their knees was
still pressed flat.
And then there was the boy himself.
'From today onwards you are my son, so you need cry no more. Your mother and brothers have ascended into a beautiful
country. Please come with me,' Suriya
said to the boy.
Suriya led the child back to his
home. The wilderness through which they passed was covered with blue-green stones, and all about was
silent, but for the sound of the child's sobbing as he followed Suriya home.
Suriya discussed with his wife
what name they should give the child. As they pondered
the matter for a few days, the child's story spread throughout the whole of Sasha, and as everyone had taken to calling him The Goose
Child, Suriya had no option but to do the same."
The old man was short of breath for a moment. As I gazed down at the moss by my feet, I could see before
me in my mind's eye the terrible scene as the wild geese fell from the skies,
engulfed in flames, burning pitifully. The old man
looked at me for a while before resuming his story.
"At the end of spring the wheat blossoms fly twinkling
over the fields. The harsh white light from the
distant icebergs stings the naked eye with its fierce intensity. The fruit trees sway in the breeze and the lark sends out
crystal clear waves of sound with its bright voice in the sky.
The child was now six years old. One spring
evening Suriya went for a walk with the child through
the town. A bat flew by, like a shadow in the night,
underneath the heavy, wine-red clouds.
The town's children had fastened string to their sticks and
were running after them. Calling out, 'Goose child! Goose child!', they threw their
sticks down, joined hands and formed a large circle around Suriya
and the child.
Suriya laughed. The
children were teasing the boy, as children do, singing all together, 'Goose
child, goose child! You have come down from heaven to Suriya.' One
of them called out, 'Goose child, you foundling, will you still be here when
the spring comes?'
They all burst out laughing at this and suddenly a small
stone came flying towards the goose child, hitting him on the cheek. Suriya covered the child with
his body to protect him from the other children and shouted at them angrily,
'What do you think you're playing at? Has this child
done anything to hurt you? Stones should never be
thrown, not even as a joke!'
One by one the children came to apologize to the boy and to
comfort him. One of them even wanted to give him some
dried figs that he had in his pocket.
During the whole time a smile had played upon the lips of
the goose child. Suriya's
face broke into a smile too as he forgave the children before continuing on
with their walk through the town. In the stillness of
the bright yellow, agate evening mist Suriya spoke to the child.
'You were brave not to cry.'
According to what people say, the child was then supposed to
have clung tightly to his father and asked,'But
grandfather had seven bullets in him, didn't he?'"
The old pilgrim looked me in the face. I
returned his gaze, looking into his mournful eyes. He
continued with his story.
"There was another time when one evening the child
could not get off to sleep. He tossed and turned
restlessly on his bed.
'Mother, I just can't get to sleep,'the
child said. Suriya's wife
got up and went to him, gently caressing his head. The
child's head was burning hot and he was trembling like a leaf.
It felt as if a large three-day-old moon was floating about inside his
head; it seemed to be full of fern buds. Slowly it
felt as if something square was spreading out within him, something marvelously
soft and white. Then the square turned into a large
box. His mother was worried how hot his forehead had
become.
Suriya put his hands together in
prayer, sitting at his desk before the sutra he had just been copying. He then rose from his chair and made the child stand. He tied a red leather belt around the boy's waist and
together they walked outside into the open air.
All the houses roundabout stood with their doors shut, and
their roofs all stood in a row silhouetted under the starry sky. Suddenly the child could hear the sound of flowing water. After he had thought for a while, the child asked,'Father, does water flow at night too?'
Suriya looked at the large blue
star that was rising up on the far side of the desert and answered,'Yes,
water flows at night too. It doesn't matter whether it's day or night, water will always flow, except in places
where the land is quite flat.'
All at once the child's fever died
away and now all he wanted was to rush back to his mother.
'Father, let's go back home now,' he said pulling Suriya by the sleeve of his coat. They
walked home where his mother was waiting for them, and as she closed the door
behind them, the child was already back in bed, fast
asleep.
I have also heard the following story about the child.
One day Suriya and the child were
sitting down to eat at the dining table. Before them
many kinds of food were laid out, including two carp cooked in honey. Suriya's wife gave one to her
husband and the other to the child. 'I don't want
any,' said the child.
'But they taste wonderful! Here,
pass me your chopsticks.'
Suriya's wife took the child's chopsticks and deftly
lifted the meat off the bone.
'Why don't you try some at least? It
tastes so nice!'
The child watched intently as his mother divided the fish up. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed by a strange sensation in his
chest. He felt unbearably miserable and sad. Jumping up from his chair, he rushed outside like an arrow
flying through the air. Looking up into the sky
blanketed in white cloud, the child burst out crying.
'What on earth is up with him?' Suriya's wife asked her husband in amazement. 'Go and find out what's the matter,' Suriya
told his wife, a worried look on his face. But by the time
she had reached the door --- so the story goes - --the child had already
stopped crying. A smile was on his lips.
There was another time when Suriya
and the child were walking by the horse market. A foal
was sucking milk from its mother. A horse dealer
dressed in coarse black clothes came and took the foal away from its mother,
tied it to another foal and was about to lead them away. The
foal's mother neighed loudly in despair, but the man ignored her and began to
lead the young horses away. As they were about to
disappear around a corner, the foal kicked out its hind legs, trying to get rid
of the flies that were sitting on its belly.
The child looked again into the brown eyes of the mother
horse. Suddenly he grabbed hold of Suriya
and burst into tears. But Suriya
did not scold him. Instead he sought to cover the
child's face with his sleeve, as if to protect him. After
they had left the horse market, Suriya had the child
sit down on the green grass of the river bank. He took
an apricot from his pocket, gave it to the child and
asked in a gentle voice, 'What was it that made you cry back there?'
'But father, they took the foal away from its mother against
its will!' 'That often happens to horses, you know. It has already grown quite big, so from now on it must
work by itself.'
'But it is still young enough to be sucking milk from its
mother. It's only a baby!'
'As long as it stays with its mother, it will always rely on
her. There was nothing else to be done.'
'But father, soon they'll be making them carry heavy packs
up into those terrible mountains! And then when they
run out of things to eat, they'll kill the horses for food!'
Suriya calmly told the boy not to
talk like an adult and act so precociously. In fact
the child's words had greatly surprised him. When the
child turned twelve, Suriya sent him to a private
school in the capital which was some distance way.
The child's mother sat weaving tirelessly at her spinning
wheel to earn money to pay for the child's school fees and his pocket money. Winter came, covering the mountains of Tienshan
with snow. The mulberry leaves, now all yellow and
withered, fell rustling from the trees. One day the
child returned home. Standing at the window his mother
saw him approach, and went out to meet him.
Suriya continued copying his
sutras as if he had not noticed a thing. 'What are you
doing here, then? You should be at school.'
'But I want to work with you, mother. I
have no time for studying.' Not wishing to bother her
husband, Suriya's wife told the boy, 'Don't you start
all that grown-up talk of yours again! Now, you get
yourself straight back to school and get on with your studying otherwise you'll never amount to anything in life!'
'But mother, your hands are all rough and cracked. Yet look at mine and how soft they are!'
'You shouldn't say such things! Everyone's
hands get rough as they get older. Get back to school sharpish and study, you hear! I'm
counting on you to go out into the world and do something with your life. Father will give you a right telling-off when he hears
what you've been up to! Be off with you now!'
The child trudged dejectedly out the garden gate and then
stopped. His mother went out and walked with him for a
while as far as the marsh, as he headed back towards the school.
As she turned to go, his mother told him once more, 'Be on
your way now!'
But the child stood there gazing back towards the house. His mother turned round to face him again; her heart went
out to him. She pulled a reed from the bushes and made
it into a little flute which she gave him. Finally the
child set off on his way. Soon his silhouette grew
smaller and smaller as it receded into the distance whilst the cold clouds
stretched out up above and the reeds bent in the breeze. All
of a sudden the sound of flapping wings could be heard in the sky as a skein of
wild geese flew by. Suriya
looked up from his desk by the window and shuddered.
It was now the coldest time of the year. And
then when the sharp winter was finally over, the wheat buds appeared, as veils
of mist hovered over the desert floor like sugar water. Then
came the time for the white blossoms of the apricot and the pear trees to burst
forth. The trees and the meadows turned a deep green,
as the clouds circled in the sky, their summits the colour
of chalcedony.
It was at about this time that work began on excavating the
remains of the old temple of Sasha that lay buried in
sand on the outskirts of the town. A whole wall had
been discovered still fully intact, on which there was a picture of three heavenly
children. Everyone who saw it remarked how one of the
figures was so vivid it almost seemed to be alive.
One beautiful fine day Suriya went
to the capital to visit his son's teacher. Suriya thanked him for looking after his son and gave him
three bundles of cloth as a present. He told the
teacher that he wanted to take the child for a walk and that he would bring him
back later that day.
Suriya and the child were walking
through the crowded streets when without thinking Suriya
said, 'Oh, what a lovely blue sky there is today. You
are just at the age when you get to think how nice it'd
be to have wings and to fly off up into the sky!'
The child replied despondently,'But
father, I want to stay with you! I don't want to fly
away!'
Suriya laughed. 'Don't
worry. Nobody can simply fly off. Life
just isn't like that.'
'But father, I don't want to go away! Nobody
really needs to leave home, do they?' The child asked.
His father was slightly taken aback. 'What
do you mean 'nobody really needs to leave home.'
'Nobody has to, do they? Nobody has
to be left stranded far away from home, do they?'
'Of course not. No one has to leave
home,' Suriya replied simply, lost in thought.
The two of them walked over the market square and headed for
the edge of town. There was sand everywhere. Many people were standing in a big hole that had been
freshly dug. Suriya and the
child climbed down to join them. Facing them was an
old wall on which the picture of three heavenly children could be seen, its colours worn and faded. Suriya shuddered. He felt as if he
had suddenly been overwhelmed by something large and heavy that had fallen down
from the distant heavens. But when he spoke, there was
no trace of worry in his voice.
'This is truly remarkable. The
picture is so well painted, it's uncanny. I cannot put
my finger on it but somehow this heavenly child reminds me of you.'
Suriya turned to face the child. Then with a smile on his face, the child slumped to the
ground. In surprise Suriya
quickly grabbed hold of him with both his hands and held him tight. In his father's arms, the child murmured as if in a dream,
'Grandfather has sent me a message.'
'What's wrong with you?' Suriya called out in panic. 'You
can't simply leave me like this!'
'Father, forgive me,' the child said in a weak voice. 'I am your child. It was you, in
an earlier life, who painted this picture on the wall.' People
were running in all directions, calling out to one another, 'It's the Goose
Child! It's the Goose Child!'
The child moved his lips slightly and seemed to murmur
something, but Suriya could not make out what he was
saying. Or so the story goes. That
is all that I know."
The old man got up to leave. I was
sad to bid him farewell. I stood up and placed the
palms of my hands together in greeting. "I thank
you for this wonderful story you have told me. We are
but strangers who have met at a spring on the edge of a desert. But I believe our meeting was not simply coincidence. We are no more than travellers
whose paths have happened to cross. But be that as it
may, we will walk forward together on the path to enlightenment revealed to us
by the Holy Buddha. I bid you farewell and wish you a
happy life."
Silently the old man returned my bow. He seemed about to say something, then suddenly he turned and without a word walked slowly into the wilderness from which I had come. I set off on my way with my palms pressed together as I walked into the lonely, stony desert, in the exact opposite direction to the path taken by the old man.
- More stories by Kenji Miyazawa, downloadable from : http://www.kenji-world.net/english/download/download.html