Ānanda was the attendant of Buddha Śākyamuni.
That day, before the Buddha was about to teach the Dharma, Ānanda came forward, prostrated, and lit a stick of incense before the Buddha.
Ānanda said,
“Master, I have fallen in love with a girl.”
The Buddha asked,
“How deep is your love?”
Ānanda replied,
“Deep, truly deep. I am willing to become a stone bridge, enduring wind, scorching sun, and heavy rain for five hundred years—just so that she may walk across that bridge once.”
The Buddha let out a long sigh.
“Ānanda, when the girl walks across the bridge, you are the stone bridge, so you can’t live together with her. Are you still willing to give up your holy life and suffer for the sake of love?“
Ānanda joined his palms, bowed, and answered,
“I am willing.”
“Then go,” the Buddha replied gently.
So Ānanda transformed into a stone bridge. Every day, he had to endure wind, scorching sunlight, and pouring rain. Yet the girl never appeared.
Then one day, she suddenly emerged at the end of the bridge, walking gracefully, gently, and swiftly. Before Ānanda could see her clearly, she had already crossed, leaving only the shadow of her back. Ānanda felt disappointed, sad, and lonely as he waited endlessly for her to return.
A year passed. It was spring. The light drizzle washed away Ānanda’s sorrow. Once again, he saw the girl coming. She walked slowly, an umbrella resting on her shoulder.
His heart raced wildly, Ānanda marveled,
“How beautiful.”
He saw her carrying a heavy bag. It was so heavy that she stopped midway on the bridge to take a deep breath.
Ānanda thought,
“If only I were human again, I would help her carry that bag.”
At that very moment, a handsome young man approached and offered his help. The girl smiled and handed over the bag, then turned her umbrella toward the young man. Together they walked across the stone bridge.
Ānanda’s heart ached. He wished that the handsome young man were himself.
Not long after, the girl and the young man returned, hand in hand, crossing the stone bridge again. And so, flowers bloomed and withered, season after season passed.
The girl became a mother. She often crossed the bridge—sometimes with a daughter, sometimes with a son, sometimes with both.
Day by day, she grew older. Her footsteps slowed. The beautiful face once etched in Ānanda’s heart faded from his memory.
One day, the husband and wife crossed the bridge again, hand in hand. They were now old and frail, their heads full of white hair.
Ānanda saw that the girl he once loved had grown old alongside her husband. For some reason, his heart no longer hurt.
Eventually came the day Ānanda saw her for the last time. She followed a funeral procession carrying a coffin across the stone bridge. She was deeply sorrowful, walking while crying and shedding tears.
Ānanda felt compassion for her. In his heart, he asked,
“Why must humans endure the suffering of separation and death? What can I do to help them?”
Generations came and went. The woman’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all crossed the stone bridge. Joy and sorrow take their turn alternately.
Ānanda watched them one by one—few coming, few leaving. His heart no longer felt sentimental. It was peaceful. He even forgot why he had become a stone bridge in the first place.
Five hundred years passed, and at last the stone bridge collapsed.
Ānanda opened his eyes. He was still sitting before the Buddha. The incense he had lit was only half burned.
The dream had been so short, yet felt so long.
“Short,” because the incense had not even finished burning.
“Long,” because Ānanda could no longer remember the face of that beautiful girl—his memory of her had faded.
Ānanda attained insight from the story of the stone bridge.
A free-style translation from the novel “Zen Stone Bridge” (石桥禅) by Yi An (哲蛮).
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