Compassion

A story, as relayed to Ram Dass by a friend

"The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty, a few women with their children in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station, the doors opened, and suddenly, the afternoon peace and quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. He staggered into our car. He wore laborer clothing and he was big, drunk and dirty. Screaming he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

Terrified the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The drunk aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman, but missed as she scuttled to safety. This enraged him that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its position. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen in fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly everyday for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was pretty tough.

Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage.

“Aha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in manners! You’re gonna get a lesson in manners”!

A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted,

“HEY!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it…as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. “HEY”!

I wheeled to my left. The drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at and elderly Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand gently.

The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman and he roared above the clacking wheels,

“Why should I talk to you?”

The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer.

“What’cha been drinkin’?” He asked, his eyes sparking with interest.

“I’ve been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Droplets of spit spattered the old man.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “Absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, my wife and I, she’s seventy-six, you know, we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last year. It’s gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening…even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man’s rambling, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fist slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said. “I love persimmons, too.” His voice trailed off. “Yes,” the old man, smiling, “and I'm sure you have a wonderful wife.” “No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t have a wife, I don’t have a home. I don’t have a job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived to my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically.

“My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy matted hair."

Source: The Aikido Story