The beggar only smiled.
Sesshin wept. He drank the broth. And in that ruined temple, under a roof that no longer kept out the rain, the master became the student.
He entered the master’s room, carrying a bowl of broth made from muddy yams. buta no gotoki
From that day, he never again called any living thing buta no gotoki — except himself, with a smile, when pride whispered in his ear.
Sesshin fell ill. His body, weakened by fasting, could no longer rise. The disciples scattered, each looking for their own survival. Only the beggar remained. The beggar only smiled
Sesshin stared at him. “Why help me? I called you worse than a pig.”
Once, in a crumbling temple at the edge of a forgotten village, there lived a monk named Sesshin. He was known for his harsh discipline and his even harsher tongue. To his disciples, he often said, “You are buta no gotoki — like pigs. Rooting in mud, blind to the sky.” And in that ruined temple, under a roof
The beggar knelt. “Master, a pig does not know it is called a pig. But a man who calls another buta no gotoki — he forgets that even pigs have the Buddha-nature. Mud is not a curse. It is where lotus roots grow.”