Celestial Food Stall: I Set Up a Food Stall in Heaven

The purple bamboo forest remains evergreen year-round, with dewdrops clinging eternally to its leaves. Regardless of drought or flood in the mortal world, it is always spring here.

Guanyin Bodhisattva sits serenely on a lotus throne, with a kind and benevolent expression, her voice as gentle as the March breeze, like a mother's whisper as she lulls her child to sleep.

"Wujing, you are now a golden-bodied Arhat, why cling to the past?"

Sha Wujing knelt before the lotus platform, his back ramrod straight.

He wore a golden Arhat robe, which was given to him by Mount Ling after his pilgrimage to the West was completed. The robe was made of the finest material, woven from the silk of the South Sea and inlaid with gold thread from the Western Paradise. It felt as light as a feather and as warm as the spring sun when worn.

But Sha Wujing always felt that it didn't fit properly when he put it on.

It's not the size that's wrong, it's the weight.

He had worn the armor of the Curtain-Rolling General for five hundred years; that armor was as heavy as a mountain, but he had gotten used to wearing it.

This robe is so light, it's like you're not wearing anything at all.

"Bodhisattva, you said to me back then, 'After you have accomplished your mission, I will restore you to your original position.' I waited for you for five hundred years at the Flowing Sand River and traveled 108,000 li with you, all for this one promise."

Guanyin remained silent for a moment, then sighed. Her sigh caused the dewdrops in the purple bamboo grove to tremble, and sent a chill down Sha Wujing's spine.

He recognized that sigh. Back in the Flowing Sand River, when Guanyin advised him to wait for the pilgrims, she also sighed just like that.

At that time, he thought the sigh was compassion, that the Bodhisattva couldn't bear to see him suffer. Now he understands that the sigh wasn't compassion, but a prefix.

It is the prefix that precedes every sentence that makes him continue to wait, continue to endure, and continue to accept alternatives.

"Wujing, think about it carefully—what I said back then was 'to restore you to your original post.' But you were originally the Curtain-Rolling General, belonging to the Heavenly Court's system. Now that you have entered Mount Ling, this 'original post' will naturally be arranged within the Mount Ling system. A Golden-Bodied Arhat is already a third-grade Arhat, ranking among the Five Hundred Arhats. I have not broken my promise."

Every word was perfectly balanced and seamless, every sentence flawless. The Buddhist art of eloquence was applied to an honest man.

Sha Wujing opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He was never a good speaker.

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Back in the time at the Flowing Sand River, Guanyin asked him if he was willing to wait for the pilgrims, and he only said two words: "Willing to wait." Later on the journey to the West, his master asked him if he was tired, and he only said two words: "Not tired." Still later, when Mount Ling bestowed upon him the title of Golden Arhat, he only said two words: "Thank you for your grace."

He probably didn't say as many words in his entire life as Guanyin did in that one speech.

He wanted to say: Bodhisattva, this is not reinstatement, it's a job transfer.

You used the position at Lingshan to offset the promise from Heaven. When you said "restore your original position" at Liusha River, I didn't understand the difference between Lingshan and Heaven. I thought "original position" meant "General of Curtain Rolling". I thought every word you said meant the literal meaning.

But he couldn't say it. Because the other person was a Bodhisattva, because he was now an Arhat, because five hundred years of cultivation had taught him that there were some things he couldn't say.

Once spoken aloud, it becomes an "obsession."

The thing Buddhism fears most is attachment.

He kowtowed, stood up, and walked out of the bamboo grove. The bamboo leaves rustled, as if whispering behind him.

He walked a long way, until he could no longer smell the fragrance of the purple bamboo forest, before he stopped.

He looked down at the Arhat robe he was wearing, which was golden, woven from silk and trimmed with gold—something that countless cultivators in the Three Realms dreamed of.

He suddenly felt that the robe was like a theatrical costume, and that he had just been pulled in to fill a role.

The script was written by someone else, the lines were written by someone else, and even the way I took my bow was taught by someone else.

He is not an Arhat; he is merely the one "arranged to be an Arhat."

That evening, Sha Wujing returned to my stall, his face ashen, and without a word, he downed three bowls of wine. The wine wasn't vegan.

But he didn't ask, and I didn't mention it either.

Sometimes, rules are meant to be followed, not just to be rigidly observed.

"They're playing word games with me." He gripped the wine bowl, his knuckles turning white. "Even the Bodhisattva is playing word games with me."

I was wiping the grill and didn't say anything.

"The Celestial Register Office told me to go to the Inspectorate, the Inspectorate told me to go to the Salary Office, and the Salary Office told me to go to the Celestial Register Office."

He read out the names of the three departments one by one, word for word, as if he had memorized them five hundred times.

After he finished reading, he fell silent, looking down at the remaining wine at the bottom of the bowl.

His face was reflected in the leftover wine. His face was roughened by the wind and sand of the Liusha River, tanned dark by the sun on the journey to the West, and exhausted by five hundred years of waiting.

"I made three trips. Three trips." He held up three fingers, each one trembling slightly.

It wasn't the effect of alcohol; it was that feeling of powerlessness that seeped from the very marrow of your bones after you'd been circled around three times in an invisible loop.

He pressed down three fingers one by one, "Everyone at the window smiled at me, their smiles were like they were made from the same mold. Their smiles were cleaner than the dewdrops in the bamboo forest."

He said that the official in charge of the register of immortals opened the book and pointed to a line of text, saying: "General Rolling Curtain has been removed from the list due to the incident of breaking a cup."

He asked, "Then what am I now?" The celestial official turned another page and said, "A golden-bodied Arhat, compiled by the Vulture Peak."

He said I wasn’t asking about the present, I was asking about the past, whether the handling of the situation back then could be reviewed again.

The celestial official closed the book and gave him a smile warmer than a spring breeze: "Then you'll have to go and ask the Inspectorate of Spirits."

He went to the Inspectorate of Spirits. The celestial official there opened another book and said: "The case is from five hundred years ago; the statute of limitations has long expired."

He said, "Isn't the Inspectorate in charge of discipline? And there's a retroactive period for discipline?" The celestial official closed the booklet, his smile clearer than the dewdrops in the purple bamboo forest: "Then you'll have to ask the Salary Department. Salary disbursement isn't under our jurisdiction."

He went to the Salary Department. The celestial official in the Salary Department opened the third book and said: During the Liusha River period, you were not on the payroll and there is no record of your salary.

He said, "Of course I have no salary record; I eat people in the Flowing Sand River." The celestial official's smile remained unchanged: "Then you'll have to go to the Celestial Register Office to check the status of my official record from back then."

He read the names of the three departments again: the Celestial Register Office, the Spirit Inspectorate Office, and the Salary Office. Three windows, three booklets, and three celestial officials with identical smiles.

Everyone gave him the most perfect answer within their own scope of responsibility. Every answer was impeccable, and every impeccable answer pushed him to the next window.

After pushing through the last window, he found himself back in the first window.

It's not that we took the wrong path; it's just that the path is inherently a circle.

"So what are you going to do?"

Sha Wujing remained silent for a long time.

The remaining wine in the bowl reflected the lights of the South Heavenly Gate, creating a shimmering, fragmented light.

His hand was still gripping the rim of the bowl, his knuckles turning from white to red, and then back to white, as if he were repeatedly making a decision.

Clench, loosen, clench again, loosen again.

Finally, he let go.

"I have no idea."

I threw the rag onto the cutting board.

This action made Sha Wujing raise his head.

He probably never saw me throw a rag on the cutting board.

I always fold things neatly and squarely, and even when wiping the stove, I wipe in one direction only, never venting my frustration on the rag.

"Have you ever considered that the inability to go through the formal channels is itself a path?"

Sha Wujing was stunned. He pondered those words for a long time, so long that I thought he would never speak again.

His mouth was slightly open, and his lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something but swallowed it back, and then wanted to say something again.

Finally, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, they make you go through the process so that you never get to the end. If you never get to the end, it's not that they're not giving you justice, it's that you didn't complete the process yourself."

I picked up the rag again and wiped the grease off the cutting board piece by piece.

The rag was old, the cutting board was old, and even the way I wiped the cutting board was old.

Over the years I've been setting up a stall at the foot of the Heavenly Court, I've seen too many people dragged down by the system.

They didn't lose because they were unreasonable, they lost because they believed in reason too much.

Those who believe in reason always think that justice is served when the process reaches its end, but the process itself is a circle; it has no end.

"Since programming is a cycle, then stop going in circles. Get out."

That night, a notice appeared outside the South Heavenly Gate. The paper was ordinary; it was torn from my accounting notebook, and the edges were still stained with oil.

The oil splattered from wiping the grill today hadn't dried completely, and the night breeze caused it to solidify into several translucent round spots.

The handwriting was quite ordinary; it was written with a worn-out pen I used for bookkeeping, and the ink was uneven. But every passing deity couldn't help but stop and take a closer look.

The text above reads: "Former General of the Curtain-Rolling Army, now the Golden-Incarnation Arhat Sha Wujing, is demanding back pay. When will Heaven settle this debt of five hundred years?"

There was another line of smaller text below, which Sha Wujing asked me to add. He said that this matter had nothing to do with Mount Ling; it was a matter between him and the Heavenly Court, and the Bodhisattva should not be implicated.

I looked at him and wrote that sentence down.

That's the kind of person he is—even though he's been owed five hundred years, he's still thinking about others.

Beside the notice, Sha Wujing sat cross-legged, his back ramrod straight, his hands clasped together, saying nothing.

His golden Arhat robe remained motionless in the night wind, like a statue that had taken root.

The robe was light, woven from silk and trimmed with gold, but at this moment, wrapped around his body, it looked like a suit of armor.

It wasn't the heavy iron armor of the Curtain-Rolling General, but a different kind of armor, heavier than any other, armor forged by five hundred years of silence.

The first to arrive were a few low-ranking celestial officials who happened to be passing by and just wanted to watch the spectacle.

Peeking around and whispering, they said, "Isn't that the Curtain-Rolling General who broke the glass lamp?" "I heard he went to the Western Paradise to retrieve the scriptures, why is he back?" "To collect unpaid wages? Does Heaven owe him money?"

More and more people gathered, and the sounds of discussion bubbled up like boiling water.

Some people say he's foolish, but that's all in the past. He's a golden-bodied Arhat now, why bring up old grievances?

Some say that the Heavenly Court was indeed in the wrong; demoting someone for breaking a cup back then was too harsh.

Some people say that the worst thing is not being demoted, but that Guanyin promised to "restore your original position" before the journey to the West, but then changed her mind. Isn't that just cheating people and making them work for nothing?

Sha Wujing closed his eyes and remained silent, like a stone statue.

The whispers passed by him like water flowing past a stone. The stone remained still, but the water flowed on its own.

But the stone heard where every drop of water went.

Outside the crowd, an old man wearing a straw hat squatted on a street corner, with a crumpled piece of straw paper spread out in front of him.

The words "Opening for Betting" were written crookedly above. The left line read: "Heaven acknowledges the debt, odds 1 to 10." The right line read: "Heaven feigns death, odds 1 to 1." The middle option was obscured by ink, but in the sunlight, a few words could be vaguely discerned: "A debt of five hundred years, I'll admit defeat if you can collect it."

The old man's straw hat was pulled low, obscuring his face, but his hands resting on his knees betrayed his age.

His skin was wrinkled like dried tangerine peel, and his knuckles were thick—the kind of hands that someone who had held a broom for thousands of years would have.

An unfortunate celestial official, demoted to guard the celestial toilet, passed by, threw three copper coins onto the left-hand option, took a few steps, turned back, picked up the coins, and switched to the right-hand option.

Judging from his expression, it was as if he had put a probability problem into practice on himself.

He himself was the one who was demoted by a decree from the Heavenly Court, and he knew better than anyone how likely it was that the Heavenly Court would acknowledge the decree.

Those three coins were an impulse, a hope, a "what if" moment. Turning back to the right represents experience, a lesson learned, and the realization that "it's better not to dream after all."

The old man weighed down the four corners of the paper with pebbles, pressing down the left side first and then the right, as if afraid the wind would blow away the odds.

The night wind swept across the stone steps of the South Heavenly Gate, making a rustling sound as the straw paper rustled, but the pebbles remained firmly in place and weren't blown away. The odds were still there, and so was the wind.