The Pig's Screams in His Final Seven Days

As the sun sank behind the bamboo grove, the evening wind carried the smell of scorched pig bristles and the crackle of firewood in Chunda's kitchen. Smoke drifted low across the earthen courtyard, mingling with the thick, metallic scent of blood so that anyone passing by had to cover their nose. There he stood, brandishing a gleaming butcher's knife, stout and flushed red from the bottles of wine he had drunk that afternoon, laughing with delight at the golden roasted pig hanging before his veranda.

"My pork is famous far and wide. I'm rich enough for a lifetime—why waste money making offerings at the temple!"

Chunda, the butcher who lived beside the Buddha's monastery, had never once set foot in a temple and knew nothing of generosity. Whenever he saw monks walking by with their alms bowls, he would turn away, even shouting at them: "You beggars only trouble people. You're of no use to the world!" He told himself that his comfortable life was the very best there could be, and that virtue was nothing but a tiresome burden.

And yet that wealth did not fall from the sky. For decades, Chunda rose before dawn each day, tying each pig down so it could not move, then beating it with a heavy club from head to hoof until its flesh was bruised and tender—yet deliberately not letting it die, because a dead pig's meat turns stiff. He even devised an iron bar to pry open the pig's jaws, pouring boiling water into its belly to flush out its insides while it was still faintly squealing. When he was done, he poured boiling water over its skin to strip the bristles while it was still alive, and only then cut its throat, catching the blood to drench himself until he was crimson. These methods made his roasted pork famous throughout the region, his storehouses full of money, his home vast and spacious. But behind that laughter of pleasure lay countless generations of pigs tortured until their screams could no longer be heard.

Then came the day when the blessings from merit accumulated in his past lives ran out completely, and Chunda suddenly fell gravely ill. His once-powerful body now convulsed on the bed, eyes rolled upward, mouth gasping for breath. He tried to rise but could no longer stand, and instead crawled across the floor, his head thudding against the walls, before diving under the bed and scattering the bedding. His wife and children rushed to hold him, but he flung them away, crying out sounds that were no longer human: "Oink! Oink! Don't hit me! The water is so hot, it burns my insides!"

His family was terrified, and no one dared come near. They hurriedly barred the front and back doors, sealing every opening, and confined him in the middle courtyard so he could run back and forth. Outside, the neighbors gathered in murmuring crowds.

One neighbor sighed: "Has this butcher been chasing pigs to slaughter for seven days straight? His screams echo through the whole village—even from the quiet monastery far away, you can hear them clearly!"

A woman nearby shook her head: "He isn't slaughtering pigs, sister. I saw Chunda crawling like a real pig, his eyes wild with pain, running into the walls until his forehead swelled!"

The monks passing along the road also thought the household was slaughtering animals without pause, and they went to the monastery to tell the Buddha: "Venerable One, what is butcher Chunda doing? For seven days now there have been the most pitiful pig screams. Could he be slaughtering pigs without rest?"

The Buddha sat in silence, his eyes full of compassion, and answered: "He is not slaughtering pigs. Chunda's sick body has transformed into that of a pig, reaping the fruits of his karma in this very life. He has just collapsed and died, and he has already fallen into the Avici hell."

The turning point of the story came on the seventh day. Chunda let out a piercing scream, his whole body turning black as if engulfed in flames, and then he collapsed, never to move again. Only then did the monks understand: it was not pigs being slaughtered, but the slaughterer himself repaying his karma. The Buddha taught that throughout his life Chunda had committed grave karma of killing, without doing any merit to offset it. So in this very life his suffering had arrived—seven days as a pig in agonizing pain—and in the next life his suffering would be ten thousand times greater, deep in hell.

From then on, the sound of Chunda's butcher knife was heard no more in the village. His strange and cruel trade of pig slaughter faded into oblivion, leaving only the Buddha's verse ringing out: suffering in this very life, greater suffering in the life to come—the evildoer, bathed in tears, harvests the bitter fruit he has sown. All who heard it shuddered, understanding deeply that evil karma may hide from this life, but it cannot escape samsara (cycle of rebirth).

The Meaning of the Story

One who commits evil karma, such as cruel slaughter of living beings, and who does not know to do good in recompense, will reap the fruits of suffering in this very life and fall into states of suffering ten thousand times worse hereafter. This human body is precious—do not let greed for riches make you abandon virtue.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang