The Mural and the Monastery

A Legend from China

Once, toward the end of the third century, in China, the traveling artist-sage, Ku K'ai-Chih, who, because of his simple—even foolish—outward manner was accepted by all princes and loved throughout the land, visited a small Buddhist monastery where he asked for shelter for the night.

The Abbot of the monastery told him that, unfortunately, the monastery was in terrible debt, and the buildings were in great disrepair; the monastery has very little left, with holes in the roof tiles and weeds in the garden. They could not offer the artist any more shelter than this, and only a meager morsel of food.

Ku K'ai-Chih thanked the abbot, and stayed there overnight anyhow, and in the morning asked the abbot if he might paint a mural on a wall of the main shrine room. The abbot told him, again, that the monastery needed a thousand gold coins to get out of debt, and another thousand to repair the facilities. How could they offer the artist anything for his labor if he were to paint the wall? "No," the abbot said. Our monastery is closing, and it is futile to even whitewash a novice monk's cell. No, you may certainly not paint the wall of the shrine room."

But Ku K'ai-Chih insisted. He told the abbot that he would ask for no money: only a favor from the abbot in return.

"What must I do for you?" asked the abbot.

"I will tell you when the painting is nearly finished, but you must promise me you will do it."

"Very well, I will grant you a favor. You may paint what you wish."

So Ku K'ai-Chih got to work painting a portrait of the famous sage, Vimalakirti, sick on his couch, speaking to an assembly of holy men. Vimalakirti, as you know, was a householder who associated with the common people in the world—businessmen and gamblers, prostitutes and schoolchildren—but since he was unattached to his belongings, his courtesans, and his business endeavors, he enlightened beings wherever he worked or traveled. And Vimalakirti could speak of dharma and liberation as well, or better, than any bodhisattva.

When Ku K’ai-Chih had finished painting all but Vimalakirti’s eyes, he invited the abbot and all of the monks of the monastery to the shrine room to see what he had done.

“Now, abbot, since you promised me a favor in exchange for my artistic labors, I insist that from this moment forth, you demand a price of two hundred silver coins from anyone who wishes to visit this shrine for the first time, and one hundred coins to anyone on their second visit. After that, they may give what they wish, but they must give something to enter this shrine. Deal?”

“But that is preposterous, Ku K’ai-Chih. Each week our guests become fewer. Certainly if we demand a price such as this, we shall nevermore receive any pilgrims!”

Ku K’ai-Chih responded: “Did you not tell me that your monastery is closing anyway? Won’t your visitors dwindle away anyhow? Are you refusing to grant me my favor?”

Reluctantly, the abbot agreed, shaking his head. Then, before anyone had a chance to leave, the artist dipped his brush into his paint, and painted in the great sage’s eyes. As the monks all watched, an expression of compassion and empathy—of suffering and joy captured in Vimalakirti’s eyes was so delicate, so sensitive, and so alive that one and all, without exception, burst out in tears, and stayed so as they remained in the shrine room, and for hours afterward.

News of the incredible painting soon reached the village and neighboring towns, and many pilgrims paid the price to enter the shrine room to witness it themselves. All, without exception, were reduced to tears. And within a month, the monastery had paid off its debts and was back on its feet.

And the artist-fool Ku K’ai-Chih went back on his feet too, as he wandered free and easy on his next adventure.

©2005 Craig Coss