Prevod

Long ago, there was a holy man named Seitoku. When his mother died, he laid her in a coffin and carried it all by himself to Mount Atago. There he set large stones at the four corners and rested the coffin upon them. Without pausing even for a moment, without sleeping, eating, or drinking so much as hot or cold water, and without ever letting his voice falter, he chanted the Thousand-Armed Kannon Dharani as he circled the coffin. Three years passed in this way. In the spring of the third year, neither quite in a dream nor quite awake, he faintly heard his mother’s voice: “Because you have chanted this dharani day and night, I was soon reborn in heaven as a man. But I thought that, if I were to tell you, I would rather wait until I had become a Buddha. That is why I have said nothing until now. Now I have become a Buddha, and so I tell you.” Hearing this, he said, “It is as I hoped. By now you must surely have attained Buddhahood.” He took her body from the coffin and burned it there, gathered the bones and buried them, and set up a stone memorial tablet over them, observing the customary rites. Then he set out for the capital. Along the road he came to a place where nagi greens grew thickly. Hungry and longing for something to eat, he broke them off as he went and ate them. The owner came out and saw this most venerable-looking holy man picking and eating his greens without a thought. Astonished, he asked, “Why are you eating them like that?” “I am so hungry that I can scarcely bear it,” the holy man replied. “That is why I eat.” “Well then, if you can stomach them, eat a little more—as much as you wish.” At this, the holy man briskly snapped off some thirty stalks and ate them. The greens had been planted over about three chō of land. Amazed to see him eating so, and curious to discover just how much he could eat, the owner said, “If you can manage them, have as many as you like.” “Ah, what a blessing!” said the holy man. Shuffling along on his haunches, picking as he went, he ate the entire three chō of greens. “What an astonishing appetite this holy man has!” thought the owner. “Please stay here a little while,” he said. “I will prepare something for you to eat.” He brought out a koku of white rice, cooked it, and served it to him. “I have gone without food for years, and I am hungry,” said the holy man. He ate it all, then rose and went on his way. The owner, utterly amazed, told people what had happened. In time, someone related the story to the Minister of the Right at Bōjō. “How could such a thing be? It is beyond understanding,” the minister thought. “I shall summon him and see what he eats.” Sending word that he wished to offer him a meal to form a bond in the Buddhist faith, he invited him to his residence. The holy man came on foot, a truly imposing figure. Behind him walked hungry ghosts and beasts—tigers, wolves, dogs, crows, and birds and animals of every kind, following in their thousands and tens of thousands. No one else could see them at all; everyone saw only the holy man. But the minister perceived them. “Just as I suspected! He is indeed a holy man of extraordinary powers. How wonderful!” he thought. He had ten koku of white rice cooked and set out in trays and rice tubs upon fresh straw mats, heaped high, and offered it to his guest. The holy man fed the beings who stood behind him. They crowded together, raised their hands, and ate it all. The holy man himself ate not a morsel, but departed in delight. “He is no ordinary man, just as I thought,” the minister reflected. “Perhaps he is a Buddha, wandering the world in an assumed form.” To everyone else, however, it seemed that the holy man alone had eaten everything, and they were utterly astounded. After leaving, he relieved himself in a lane north of Shijō. The beings accompanying him also scattered their droppings there, until jet-black dung lay thick along the whole length of the lane. Even the common folk found it filthy, and began calling it Dung Lane. When the emperor heard of this, he asked, “What is the lane south of Shijō called?” “It is called Ayanokōji—the Lane of Figured Silk,” he was told. “Then call this one Nishikikōji—Brocade Lane,” he said. “Its present name is far too filthy.” And that is how it came to be called Nishikikōji.