The Chair and the Critic’s Words

That afternoon, pale golden sunlight slanted through the rotting window frames, illuminating dust motes dancing in the small room. On a worn canvas folding chair lay an old man, dozing lightly, his breath faint but steady. This was a familiar sight to me, a young practitioner who visited him often. He lived in solitude, with no wife, children, or close relatives. Even when he passed away, few knew of his family circumstances.

During his final years, I was the only one caring for him. I prepared every bowl of porridge, administered every pill, and cleaned his wounds when illness struck. Yet what haunted me most was not his loneliness, but his lips, which constantly moved with harsh words. Throughout his long life, he never praised anyone except two figures: the Buddha and Venerable Narada from Sri Lanka. From humble market vendors to revered monks and nuns in temples, everyone suffered his severe criticism. In his mind, there seemed to be no room for admiration or respect toward others.

Then the day of his death arrived. There was no grand funeral, no wailing from kin. I quietly gathered his few remaining possessions and brought them up the mountain to store at the temple, hoping that through this merit, his spirit might find peace. Among these items was the old folding chair where he had spent his last days. I often rested on it myself after exhausting sessions of chanting sutras.

Some time later, the temple took in a puppy. It was playful, running everywhere, and particularly fond of that folding chair. Each time we saw it curling up on the seat, a devoted female Buddhist would quickly lift it down, muttering, "It is too dirty; do not lie where the teacher rests!" She feared the animal’s odor or filth would defile the sacred chair.

But one afternoon, as the dog settled comfortably on the chair again, I suddenly heard a hoarse, irritated voice whisper near my ear. The tone was chillingly familiar—it was the voice of the deceased old man:

"Why do you keep forcing me off the chair I am lying on?"

I startled, looking around but seeing no one. Only the dog sat there, eyes half-closed, tail wagging gently. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I understood immediately; this was no hallucination. Burdened by heavy karma of speech, trapped by an arrogant ego that refused to bow to anyone or see the good in others, he had fallen into the animal realm after death. Ironically, this canine existence remained tied to the very folding chair—a symbol of his selfishness and stubbornness during life.

A few days later, the dog died. I sat in deep contemplation regarding cause and effect (karmic law). The old man had committed no great evils; he did not kill or steal. Yet his sin of "criticism"—denying the value of others to elevate his own self—was a silent poison destroying moral integrity. His inability to practice letting go of his ego, to step out of his blind pride and see the wider world, led to this tragic end. I wondered if such a brief animal life was enough to repay his karmic debt. Or does he still wander within samsara (cycle of rebirth), uncertain when he might return to human form?

The Meaning of the Story

This narrative clearly illustrates the consequences of failing to transcend oneself. When a person is trapped in non-self (anatta) denial, always believing they are right and superior while criticizing everything around them—except those they idolize—they close the door to progress and sow heavy karma of speech. Transcending oneself requires wisdom to perceive the infinite truth of the universe, as well as the ethics to humbly recognize the virtues of others. Without this, even those with talent or high status easily fall into error, potentially descending into lower realms of existence.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Most Venerable Thich Chan Quang