The Old Abbot's Request

**Summary:** In the loneliness of his twilight years, a stern old abbot turns to a former disciple to settle his final affairs. The enduring bond between them gently opens the door of his heart.

The evening breeze stilled on the mountain. In the simple cottage, the old abbot sat alone, his back more stooped than before. The distant calls of birdsong from the hillside were sparse, making the courtyard feel even emptier. Old age had drawn near, and he understood that the day he would leave this life was not far off.

Throughout his life, the abbot had accumulated much merit. Yet he was also a difficult man, quick to scold if anything displeased him. The monastic disciples who once lived with him gradually returned to lay life and started their own families. In the end, he was left without a close, monastic disciple like a son to whom he could entrust his final matters.

Years ago, someone had lived with the abbot for a time before leaving to continue their practice elsewhere. The years stretched long, and they were not often close, but that person never forgot the old bond. On the rare occasions they met, knowing the abbot's sharp tongue, he would not wait for a reprimand but step forward and embrace him with genuine affection.

Each time, the abbot, ready to scold, would fall silent. He would stiffen slightly in his former disciple's arms before his expression softened. The disciple would ask, "How has the Venerable been lately?"

The abbot would reply in his still dry tone, "What is there to say? I am old."

"I seldom get to see the Venerable. Please don't scold me; let me hug you for a moment."

Hearing this, the abbot said no more. The simple embrace melted away his rebukes. The former disciple would occasionally make small offerings, but what stayed in the abbot's heart was not the material gifts. It was this unwavering reverence and affection, unfladed by the long years of separation.

As time passed, the abbot's health steadily declined. The lonely afternoons forced him to confront one truth: the monastic disciples who once lived beside him were gone, and the matter of his last rites would sooner or later need someone to oversee. He was a stubborn man, unaccustomed to asking for help, and this decision weighed on him for a long while.

One day, the abbot journeyed up the mountain to find his former disciple. Upon meeting, the disciple approached and embraced him as always, then asked, "What brings the Venerable up here today?"

The abbot sat down. His aged hands rested on his knees, fingers curling slightly. He was silent for a moment before speaking. "The day I return to the Buddha is not far away."

The disciple's heart constricted upon hearing this. Studying the aged face before him, he asked softly, "Does the Venerable feel very weak?"

"I know because I am old. When I pass, you shall handle my last rites for me."

The room fell utterly quiet. The disciple did not answer immediately. Those few words, from a difficult, reticent old man, were a profound trust. To ask someone to manage one's final affairs, the abbot must have held deep faith and love for him, like for a son.

The disciple's eyes grew hot. He bowed his head and replied, "Yes, Venerable. Please give your instructions. Whatever you wish for your rites, I will see to it meticulously."

The abbot looked at the person before him. He offered no words of thanks, only a slight nod. But that slow nod contained all the trust he had been unable to express for years.

Later, those who had once lived with the abbot were invited to discuss the matter. Everyone gathered, each with a different opinion. One monk remarked cheerfully that for himself, he'd just want to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in the river for simplicity, with no fuss.

The disciple entrusted with the responsibility listened, then spoke seriously, "That is your preference, not the Venerable's. We should not impose our own wishes onto him."

The other asked, "Then what does the teacher suggest we do?"

"We should do exactly as the Venerable prefers. The important thing is for him to be at ease. Whatever he instructs, we strive to fulfill."

The abbot listened as he sat, his usually stern expression gradually becoming calm. Perhaps in that moment, he understood that the one he had chosen truly placed his own wishes above personal preference. It was not merely about conducting proper rites, but the filial respect of a disciple toward the one who once guided him.

The discussion continued, but the crucial knot had been untied. The arrangements would not be decided by casual remarks or anyone's personal tastes. Everyone would carefully ask the abbot's wishes and follow them. The old disciple accepted this responsibility with all seriousness, for he understood it was a final trust.

From that day on, the loneliness in the abbot's heart seemed to lighten. Though his close monastic disciples were gone, he knew there was still someone who remembered the old bond, ready to step forward when needed. The years of separation had not erased the teacher-disciple connection. The embraces at each meeting, the few words of inquiry, and the small offerings—seemingly insignificant gestures—had woven together into a great, enduring trust.

The disciple also carried that profound emotion as a reminder. Genuine bonds need not be loud, but they must be sustained over time. A person may be difficult, may be isolated because of their own temperament, yet unwavering affection can still reach the softest, most hidden part of their heart.

**The Meaning of the Story**

The bond between teacher and disciple, and a heart of gratitude, must be preserved steadfastly, without fading over the years. Sincere reverence and affection can bridge distances, bringing comfort and trust to a person in the final days of life.

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