Tanka Asks, “Have You Eaten?”

Engo's commentary on the case

Zen Master Tanka of Dengzhou—we do not know where he was from. He first studied the Confucian learning and was about to enter Chang'an for the examinations. At an inn he dreamed that white light filled the room. A diviner called it an omen of understanding emptiness. A Zen traveler asked where he was going. “To be selected for office,” he replied. The traveler said, “How does selection for office compare with selecting a buddha?” Tanka asked where one should go for that. The traveler directed him to Master Ma in Jiangxi, the selection-ground for buddhas. Tanka went directly there. On seeing Baso, he lifted the trailing corners of his headcloth with both hands. Baso looked at him and said, “I am not your teacher. Go to Sekitō at Nanyue.” Tanka hurried there and presented himself in the same way. Sekitō said, “Go to the stable.” Tanka bowed in thanks, entered the workmen's hall, and labored with the assembly for three years. One day Sekitō announced, “Tomorrow we clear the grass before the Buddha hall.” The next day everyone prepared spades and hoes. Tanka alone filled a basin, washed his head, and knelt before Sekitō. Sekitō laughed, shaved his head, and began to recite the precepts. Tanka covered his ears and left. He returned to Jiangxi. Without formal greeting, he entered the monks' hall and sat astride the neck of the sacred monk's image. The assembly reported this in alarm. Baso entered, looked, and said, “My child, Tianran—Natural.” Tanka came down, bowed, and thanked him for the Dharma name. Thus he was called Tianran.³ This ancient was naturally keen and free. His sayings stand like a wall ten thousand feet high; every phrase has hands and feet for pulling nails and extracting wedges. He asks the monk where he came from. The answer “below the mountain” does not penetrate his place of origin, though it resembles an eye-possessing visitor testing the host. Anyone but Tanka would have struggled to handle him. Tanka's “Have you eaten?” is a second examination. “I have eaten,” says the monk—an ignorant fellow who does not understand. Tanka asks whether the person who fed him had an eye. His intent is: what use is feeding such a fellow? Had the monk been a real fellow, he would have given Tanka one jab. Tanka still had not released him, and he could only blink silently. Hofuku and Changqing lived together in Seppō's assembly and often discussed old cases. Changqing's later question need not ask only about the historical incident; he borrows its words as a topic to test Hofuku's true place. Hofuku says giver and receiver are both blind. Excellent—at this point he discusses only the matter at the moment, and his own house has a road of emergence. Changqing asks whether exhausting functioning still makes one blind. Hofuku replies, “Can you say I am blind?” He means: I have spoken to you with this discerning eye, so can you call me blind? Even so, it is half closed and half open. Had it been this mountain monk, I would have waited for Changqing's question and simply said, “Blind!” What a pity. If Hofuku had supplied that word, Setchō would have been spared all this entangling vine. Setchō's verse uses precisely this intent. “Exhausting the functioning does not make one blind.” Changqing asked whether one who fully functions becomes blind; Hofuku asked whether he could be called blind. This resembles pressing an ox's head down to make it eat grass. One must wait until it eats for itself—how can you force its head down? Setchō's verse naturally sees Tanka's intent. “The patriarchs, four sevens and two threes; bring forth the precious vessel and it becomes an offense.” He implicates not only Changqing but the twenty-eight Indian patriarchs and six patriarchs of this land, burying them all at once. Old Śākyamuni preached the whole treasury of teachings for forty-nine years and at the end transmitted only this precious vessel. Yongjia said, “This is no empty stripping away of outward form; the Tathāgata's precious staff leaves personal traces.” Under Hofuku's interpretation, bringing forth the vessel becomes entirely an offense. “The offense is deep, yet nowhere can it be found.” I cannot explain this to you. Sit quietly and examine it within the phrase. If the offense is deep, why is there nowhere to find it? This is no small offense: the great matter of the patriarchs is sunk all together upon dry land. Thus Setchō says heaven and the human world sink together.