The Taste of Banzo's Sword Blade

**Summary:** The hot-tempered young man Matazuro seeks a master to learn swordsmanship, is forced to work for three years, and then unexpectedly receives a wooden sword.

The sun had just set behind the Futara mountains, leaving a patch of red light clinging to the earth of an old wooden house. The mountain wind whistled through the door cracks, carrying the scent of dry grass and the incessant chirping of insects from the thickets. Matazuro stood stunned in the courtyard, his right hand still gripping the cloth sack holding a few old sets of clothes, cold sweat beading on his temples. He had just climbed up from the foot of the mountain, a steep two-hour journey that left his legs trembling. A burning desire flared in his heart: he had to become a great swordsman like his father, or else his life would be considered wasted.

"I cannot wait that long. I will overcome any hardship if you teach me, Master!"

Three years prior, in his hometown, his father—a renowned swordsman who had defeated countless opponents and commanded great respect—had shaken his head at his son. Looking at Matazuro's still clumsy hands, he declared his skill too ordinary to be a master, refusing to teach him. That shock kindled a rebellion within him. He left home and made his way to Mount Futara, where the swordsman Banzo's reputation echoed throughout the land. Throughout the journey, he told himself: as long as he found a skilled master, learning the sword couldn't possibly take long. Yet, when standing before Banzo, before he could even boast of his talents, the old master judged him just as his father had: he was not qualified.

Matazuro felt his heart clench, his jaw tightening until it ached. He hurried forward, his voice strained with impatience:

"Master, if I practice diligently, how many years will it take for me to become a swordsman?"

Banzo glanced at him, his voice flat: "The rest of your life."

He clenched the cloth sack until veins stood out on his hand, his chest heaving. His father was aging and needed care; could he really waste his life away on a mountain? He asked again urgently, like a drowning man grasping at straws: "If I serve as your attendant, how long then?"

Banzo softened slightly: "Perhaps ten years."

Matazuro felt he had found a lifeline, but it still seemed too long. He mentioned his frail, aging father and pleaded for an even more intensive training. Banzo's voice suddenly deepened: "Oh, then perhaps thirty years."

Stunned, Matazuro's eyes widened: "Why is that? You said ten years before, now it's thirty?"

Banzo replied, his expression unchanging: "You are too impatient. Those who want quick results like you rarely learn quickly. Stay here with me for five years; it might be possible."

Finally, Matazuro understood he was being reproached for his lack of patience. He bit his lip, nodding as he wiped his eyes: "Very well, I agree."

From that day on, day after day, Matazuro never heard a single word about sword techniques, nor was he allowed to touch a sword. Each morning he rose at the crow of the rooster, cooked rice for his master, washed the dishes, made the beds, swept the courtyard and the house, and tended the garden. Three years passed. The light on the threshold had changed color many times, but his back remained bent over fallen leaves. Thinking of his bleak future, he was deeply disheartened, his shoulders slumping, yet he dared not utter a word of complaint.

Then one day, as he knelt washing bowls by the well, Banzo crept up behind him and swung a wooden sword blade that landed right beside his neck, making the hairs stand on end. The next morning, while he was cooking, Banzo suddenly lunged and struck again. From then on, day and night, he had to guard against these unexpected attacks. Banzo growled:

"You must always be aware of the taste of the sword blade. Never be distracted for a single moment!"

Matazuro sighed, wiping his sweat: "I understand. I will watch every step."

The master nodded: "That is how you master the Way of the Sword, not some shallow swordsmanship."

He suddenly realized: those years of sweeping leaves were actually training for a calm mind. Every moment without forgetting his defensive stance, he learned quickly, and a smile often appeared on his lips for his master. Seeing this, Banzo smiled with satisfaction. Before long, Matazuro became the greatest swordsman in the land, his fame renowned far and wide.

**The Meaning of the Story**

The story teaches that one who seeks knowledge needs patience, not haste or impulsiveness; and at the same time, must maintain awakened mindfulness at all times, as if constantly on guard against an unexpected sword blade. This is how one transforms technique into the Way and overcomes the afflictions.

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