The Buddhist Monastery on Wei Shan

Part 1: Mao’s Struggle for Learning, Farm boy buys freedom. Part 2: He Hu-tzu’s House.

The Buddhist Monastery on Wei Shan

In the evening we arrived at Wei Shan. As we approached, the uniform green background gradually resolved into trees surrounding the great white Buddhist temple. Soon, we reached its base and started up the slope.

At the gate, two monks emerged to welcome us and usher us into the building. They likely assumed we had traveled a great distance to worship Buddha. To avoid any misunderstanding, we explained that we had come to beg. They assured us, “Worshiping Buddha and begging are the same thing.” We didn’t grasp their meaning but supposed it stemmed from some deep philosophy—perhaps a corollary to Buddha’s teaching that all men are equal. Without questioning them, we followed through a second door into the inner courtyard, where about a hundred monks paced slowly back and forth.

We were given a room and encouraged to leave our bundles and bathe, an offer we gratefully accepted. When we returned, the monks urged us to burn incense to Buddha, but we clarified that we hadn’t come to worship. We explained that our purpose was to meet the Fangzhang, the abbot. They eyed our ragged begging attire skeptically and remarked that the Fangzhang didn’t receive just anyone. They added that we might see him during one of his famous dissertations. Undeterred, we insisted that we not only wanted to see him but to speak with him that very night. Our determination visibly impressed them, though they hesitated to disturb him without prior acquaintance. Finally, we persuaded them to deliver a carefully written note, signed by both of us. Within ten minutes, they returned to say the Fangzhang would be pleased to meet us at once and invited us to follow them to his room.

He was a man of about fifty, with a kind, distinguished face. The four walls of his room were lined with books—Buddhist scriptures and commentaries alongside the classics of Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu. On a table in the center of the large room stood only a tall vase of flowers and a low vase of orchids, nothing more. Though we couldn’t discuss Buddhist studies with him, we engaged in a fascinating hour-long conversation about the classics. The Fangzhang was delighted and invited us to share supper with him. Afterward, we returned to the main hall, where a large group of monks had gathered once more. Seeing us emerge from the Fangzhang’s room, where we had dined, they assumed we were guests of importance and rose to greet us.

To be friends of the Fangzhang, they reasoned, we must be eminent scholars and first-class calligraphers. They asked us to inscribe words on their fans and scrolls as keepsakes, keeping us busy until nearly midnight. The next morning, as we spoke of leaving, the monks relayed that the Fangzhang wished us to stay a few days and visit him again that afternoon. In the meantime, they showed us the vegetable garden, the expansive kitchen, the refectory, and other parts of the monastery. Gardeners, cooks, water carriers—all the workers were monks.

When we returned to the Fangzhang’s room that afternoon, he received us warmly once more. This time, he seemed intent on discussing “business.” In a gentle manner, he extolled Buddhism’s virtues, aiming to spark our interest in religion. Though uninterested in religious debate, we listened politely, careful not to signal agreement or dissent. We let him speak. When he mentioned Confucius and Lao Tzu, we found familiar ground and shared our views. But our true curiosity lay not in Buddhism itself but in the Buddhist organization in China. We began asking questions.

“How many monks live here?” we inquired.
“About a hundred reside here permanently,” he replied. “But with visitors from distant regions, we often host three or four hundred at once. Visiting monks typically stay a few days before moving on. Years ago, we had as many as eight hundred—the record since the monastery’s founding, though that was before my time.”
“How is it,” Mao asked, “that monks from provinces thousands of kilometers away come here? What do they do?”
“They come to hear talks on the scriptures and receive religious instruction,” the Fangzhang explained. “The Fangzhangs of this monastery have long been renowned for their explanations and commentaries. We’re wealthy enough to provide travelers with board and lodging for days. Monks across China know this place. As you’re aware, monks are ‘people who have abandoned their homes,’ so all Buddhist temples and monasteries are their homes, visited in turn for instruction.”

“How many monks are there in China?” I asked.
“There are no exact statistics,” he continued. “Excluding Mongolia and Tibet, there must be at least ten thousand in China proper. Including those regions, where the ratio of monks is extremely high, there could be ten million or more.”
“And how many centers of instruction like Wei Shan exist in China?” I pressed.
“There must be at least a hundred like this,” he said, “and counting smaller ones, perhaps a thousand altogether.”
“Are Buddhist books published?” Mao asked.
“Yes, indeed, many—especially in centers like Shanghai, Nanjing, Hangzhou, and Xingto.”

“We’re considering visiting other major Buddhist monasteries,” I explained. “Could you write us letters of introduction?”
“That’s unnecessary,” he replied. “You’ll be welcomed everywhere just as you are here.”

We thanked him and mentioned our plan to leave the next day. He said it was our choice but wished to see us again before we departed. Since we wanted to start early, we thanked him once more and bid farewell. In the main hall, the monks stood to greet us again. Knowing we’d leave in the morning, they requested verses and inscriptions as mementos. Crowding around with their requests, we obliged as best we could. Some monks wrote beautifully formed characters themselves and were visibly surprised by Mao Tse-Tung’s coarse handwriting. We sat at two small writing tables, initially surrounded by monks, but soon they all drifted to me, leaving Mao without further customers.

Among them were five boys of about fourteen. One, Fa Yi, I remember fondly to this day. At fifteen, he had remarkable command of language for his age, and his calligraphy was exquisite. From our arrival, he seemed drawn to us, seizing every chance to talk. He couldn’t recall where he’d come from or his name before becoming a monk, only that he’d arrived at the monastery as a year-old baby. We guessed he was an illegitimate child raised by the monks—a common practice in China. Teasingly, I said I saw a resemblance to Mao Tse-Tung; he retorted that he undoubtedly had my features.

Fa Yi longed to study beyond Buddhist scriptures—Confucius, Tang Dynasty poems, and more. He could already recite several Tang poems. At first, we suggested he leave his secluded life for the wider world. Eager yet fearful, he knew no other home and owned nothing. “Why not live like us,” we asked, “traveling freely without money, with just one change of clothes?” This struck him, but as he wavered, we worried he might try to escape and follow us, risking the Fangzhang’s blame. So young, we shifted tack, urging him to study hard among the educated monks and stay put. That night, I wrote him several verses in my finest calligraphy as a keepsake.

At dawn, Mao and I left the monastery and descended the mountainside. Fa Yi accompanied us to the base, shedding bitter tears as we parted. Poor, delicate Fa Yi! Pitiful Fa Yi!

From: Mao Tse-Tung and I Were Beggars, Yu Siao, 1959.