The Old Woman of a Hundred Years Under the Dim Light

The rain drummed down upon the tin roof of the old lodging house, and the wind whistled through the door gaps, making the small room even colder. Master Thích Chân Quang had just been helped up the stairs by some children, his robe shoulders soaked, his lips pale. The exhaustion from giving a dharma talk in the steady rain had caused his blood pressure to drop, leaving his limbs weak. He sank onto the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to collect his mind to steady his breath.

This was his first time setting foot in that house, his first moment of rest after a long journey. The damp, musty air clung to his nostrils, lit only by a single yellow bulb casting light across a corner of the room. Before he could regain his composure, he suddenly saw, in that shadowed corner, an old woman sitting silently. She was not an ordinary person. She was a ghost, her form terrifying, her face etched with resentment born of a lack of blessings from merit, a sight to strike fear. His heart tightened, but the clarity of his practice allowed him to look more closely.

He perceived that this old woman had existed in the area for a hundred years, and even in life, her ways had not been virtuous. After death, with no one to guide her, she had remained trapped in the invisible realm, sad and alone. He thought, "Her suffering is immense. For a hundred years, no one has shown her the path of light." He then made a vow and spoke softly, "May you come to know the Buddha's teachings and find peace." As soon as the words left his lips, she vanished like smoke dissolving into the rain.

The next morning, he summoned the homeowner, his voice still weary but serious. "Does anyone stay in this house on a permanent basis?"

The owner shook his head. "No, Master. I rent it out, and I only just took it back recently."

The Master took a deep breath. "Do you know, this area was once a cemetery for the French? It is very old. Many souls here have not yet been liberated; they linger in this vicinity. You should recite prayers for them whenever you chant sutras."

The owner paused, his hand gently rubbing the back of his neck. "I... I will look into it. I will try."

The Master was unsure if they followed his advice, but from that day on, he understood that the spirit realm is both close and separate from the human world. Because our ordinary eyes cannot see it, we often act with indifference. It was like during a morning prayer ceremony for the deceased, by noon he forgot the ritual of offering food to wandering spirits; they had to bother him slightly before he suddenly remembered.

The turning point came when he recognized that the invisible realm around us is teeming with beings; they cannot be forgotten. The old woman of a hundred years was just one among countless souls needing a sutra recitation, a single thought of compassion, to be freed from their dark corner.

From then on, whenever staying in a strange place, he would instruct his disciples, "Perform the ritual of food offering and chant for the spirits around the house. Do not let them starve and suffer in afflictions." This simple but consistent practice gradually transformed once-gloomy houses; later residents reported no longer feeling the strange, cold presence.

Life at the temple later incorporated the prayer ceremony for the deceased—not elaborate, but sincere. Those who heard the story of the old woman in the corner were moved, realizing that around us, perhaps, are relatives from past lives who need a single recitation of the Buddha's name.

**Meaning of the Story**

The spirit realm is close to the human world, yet we cannot see it, leading to a lack of appropriate conduct. We need to use a sincere heart, the words of sutras, and acts of offering to help spirits achieve liberation. We must not forget the souls that surround us.

*Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang*