Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [471]
“It’s just talking about being good to your mama and daddy. You’ve already heard it a million times.”
“Shh!”
“Sing some more. We’ll be quiet.”
“‘Without a father, the child is not born.
Without a mother, the child is not nourished.
The spirit comes from the father’s seed;
The body grows within the mother’s womb.”’
Jūrō paused to rearrange himself and pick his nose, then resumed.
“‘Because of these relationships,
The concern of a mother for her child
Is without comparison in this world….”’
Noticing how silent the others were, Jūrō asked, “Are you listening?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“‘From the time when she receives the child in her womb,
During the passage of nine months,
Going, coming, sitting, sleeping,
She is visited by suffering.
She ceases to have her customary love for food or drink or clothing
And worries solely about a safe delivery.”’
“I’m tired,” complained Jūrō. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“No. Keep singing. We’re listening.”
“‘The months are full, and the days sufficient.
At the time of birth, the winds of karma hasten it on,
Her bones are racked with pain.
The father, too, trembles and is afraid.
Relatives and servants worry and are distressed.
When the child is born and dropped upon the grass,
The boundless joy of the father and mother
Match that of a penurious woman
Who has found the omnipotent magic jewel.
When the child utters its first sounds,
The mother feels that she herself is born anew.
Her chest becomes the child’s place of rest;
Her knees, its playground,
Her breasts, its source of food.
Her love, its very life.
Without its mother, the child cannot dress or undress.
Though the mother hungers,
She takes the food from her own mouth and gives it to her child.
Without the mother, the child cannot be nourished….’”
“What’s the matter? Why’d you stop?”
“Wait a minute, will you?”
“Will you look at that? He’s crying like a baby.”
“Aw, shut up!”
It had all begun as an idle way to pass the time, almost a joke, but the meaning of the words of the sutra was sinking in. Three or four others besides the reader had unsmiling faces, their eyes a faraway look.
“‘The mother goes to the neighboring village to work.
She draws water, builds the fire,
Pounds the grain, makes the flour.
At night when she returns,
Before she reaches the house,
She hears the baby’s crying
And is filled with love.
Her chest heaves, her heart cries out,
The milk flows forth, she cannot bear it.
She runs to the house.
The baby, seeing its mother approach from afar,
Works its brain, shakes its head,
And wails for her.
She bends her body,
Takes the child’s two hands,
Places her lips upon its lips.
There is no greater love than this.
When the child is two,
He leaves the mother’s breast.
But without his father, he would not know that fire can burn.
Without his mother, he would not know that a knife can cut off fingers.
When he is three, he is weaned and learns to eat.
Without his father, he would not know that poison can kill.
Without his mother, he would not know that medicine cures.
When the parents go to other houses
And are presented with marvelous delicacies,
They do not eat but put the food in their pockets
And take it home for the child, to make him rejoice….”’
“You blubbering again?”
“I can’t help it. I just remembered something.”
“Cut it out. You’ll have me doing it too.”
Sentimentality with regard to parents was strictly taboo among these denizens of society’s outer edge, for to express filial affection was to invite charges of weakness, effeminacy or worse. But it would have done Osugi’s aging heart good to see them now. The sutra reading, possibly because of the simplicity of the language, had reached the core of their being.
“Is that all? Isn’t there any more?”
“There’s lots more.”
“Well?”
“Wait a minute, will you?” Jūrō stood up, blew his nose loudly and sat down to intone the rest.
“‘The child grows.
The father brings cloth to clothe him.
The mother combs his locks.
The parents give every beautiful